


The Snake & The Wolf (Scandal Westeros - Episode Three)

by SkinnyBlackGirl



Series: Scandal: Westeros [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Scandal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Family Angst, Infidelity, Modern Westeros, Politics, Rare Pairings, Romance, Scandal-Westeros, Sex, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23329039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinnyBlackGirl/pseuds/SkinnyBlackGirl
Summary: Robb thought he'd outgrown his Wolf Blood; that maddening impulsiveness that occasionally drove his kin to folly. He assumed his time at war and his father’s death had permanently tempered it. He realized that night, with blinding, scorching heat pumping through his veins as he spread Sarella on the conference room table, that he was incorrect. The Wolf Blood had been there all along. Dormant. Reignited by a pair of piercing onyx eyes, a subtle Dornish drawl, and one of the most clever minds he’d ever encountered.
Relationships: Sarella Sand/Robb Stark
Series: Scandal: Westeros [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623448
Comments: 23
Kudos: 44





	1. Part One

One thing about a good political consultant: they are excellent at anticipating the public’s desires. 

For instance, when Sarella Sand joined his campaign three years ago, she told Robb Stark that he wasn’t “Northern” enough for his constituency. She suggested he grow a beard, toss out all those red and blue ties his mother forced on him in favor of charcoals and light grays, and have Grey Wind, his massive husky, at his side in all of his ads. And she’d been right. 

She’d also been right—unfortunately—about dating Roslin Frey, Westeros’s girl-next-door morning news anchor. Just yesterday, Theon showed him the social media stats on the carefully-coordinated photos of his proposal and they were through the roof, specifically in the North and Riverlands. “You should see all these #relationshipgoals tags and heart-eye emojis, Stark. You’re a regular Prince Charming.” 

So Robb shouldn’t have been surprised to walk into the suite at the Merman’s Courtyard Hotel and find Sarella spread out on the king-sized bed, her all-business black dress unbuttoned, fingers buried in an elegant pair of high-cut black lace panties that make her impossibly long legs look even longer. 

Because she knew he loved her like this; her proper work attire pushed aside for deliciously improper purposes. Ever since their first time at his campaign headquarters—her pencil skirt around her waist, blouse unbuttoned with almond butter smooth C-cups peeking out of a La Perla bra—the sight of her disheveled drove him insane. 

He thought he'd outgrown his Wolf Blood; that maddening impulsiveness that occasionally drove his kin to folly. He assumed his time at war and his father’s death had permanently tempered it. He realized that night, with blinding, scorching heat pumping through his veins as he spread Sarella on the conference room table, that he was incorrect. The Wolf Blood had been there all along. Dormant. Reignited by a pair of piercing onyx eyes, a subtle Dornish drawl, and one of the most clever minds he’d ever encountered.

That blood bubbles through him now, watching Sarella’s skin glow against the snow-white duvet, dark tresses loose and flowing on the pillows behind her, and chest heaving in a lace bra that matches the panties, where her slender fingers are gripped by the slick heat he's been dreaming about since he boarded his jet two hours ago.

“Hi,” she breathes.

Robb’s eyes stay on hers as he loosens his tie, tosses his jacket on a chair by the door, and rolls up his shirt sleeves. “Hi.” 

* * *

**_***THREE YEARS PRIOR***_**

Sarella walks into the storefront headquarters of Robb Stark’s campaign, 24 ounces of the North’s special (bitter) coffee brew in hand. She has no idea why these people equate suffering with character, but she won’t be the Southron diva frowning because she can’t get a decent Braavosi roast or Dornish nutmeg, so she toughs it out. Besides, with the two hours of sleep she got the previous evening and needing to be on point for the morning’s strategy meeting, she’ll take her caffeine however she can get it. 

When she left Robb at the pub the previous evening, she told him she wanted to review her notes for today, but she knew them like the back of her hand. What she really did when she returned to her hotel was take a lukewarm shower, put on flannel pajamas, and place her phone on the end table by the door—far from the bed. 

Then she laid down and tried to forget the feral look in Robb’s eyes when he stared at her across the dinner table. 

When she asked Wyman about Robb’s dinner invitation, he assured her the intentions were pure. “He gets it from his father,” her old boss told her. “Likes to be on a first-name basis with everyone who works for him.” 

The night started out innocent. They met at his favorite Wintertown pub and shared a pint. To his surprise (and later, genuine delight), she kicked his ass in three rounds of darts while he peppered her with “So tell me about yourself” questions. 

It wasn’t that he was handsome. She was prepared for his stocky frame and squared jawline when she met him. Not even that he was charismatic; she’d seen that in interviews before taking the gig. But he had that perfect people’s touch that made you feel like you were the most interesting person in the room. When you combine that with his looks and that easy, boyish grin, she understood why Wyman said he was a once-in-a-generation candidate.

After insisting that being the bastard daughter of a Dornish prince and growing up in a palace did _not_ make her a princess and that all her adult sisters had careers and earned wages, she folded her arms, leaned on the hightop table and asked: “So what else would you like to know?” 

That’s when it happened. 

Under regular light, Robb’s eyes were a gorgeous crystal ocean blue, but at that moment, they were brewing storms that she would have happily drowned in. And the way his nostrils flared? Like something primal was clawing at him dying to get out? She didn’t know if it was the half-pint of cider she drank, but heat curled up her spine like a snake being charmed out of its basket. An unspoken mutual understanding crackled across the table and for a second, she wondered if they would even make it out of the pub.

He recovered quickly by asking: “Is your work here keeping you away from someone special?” 

He was not slick. Neither was she. 

When she answered that she was “hopelessly and stereotypically married to her job” and asked if he had any “situations” that would require discretion during the campaign—to which he answered “none at all”—the unsaid words laid plainly between them. 

Through some miracle, they made it out of the pub. The gentleman that he was, he called his driver to take her back to her hotel. 

Where all night, she tried and failed at sleeping off the memory of his hard, devouring gaze. 

That’s behind her when she walks into the conference room. Robb’s already seated at the head of the table, dressed casually in a black crew neck sweater and blue jeans, sipping from a coffee mug bearing a giant wolf’s head. Around him are the usual suspects: Wyman; Robb’s press secretary, Theon Greyjoy; the campaign’s administrative coordinator, Jeyne Poole; and Luwin, the policy advisor. 

Then, unexpectedly, there’s Mrs. Catelyn Tully Stark. 

“The mother is… a delicate situation,” Wyman explained when he hired her. “She comes from a political family, so she has some acumen. But she’s traditional and occasionally… overbearing. Tread lightly with her.”

“Mrs. Stark,” Sarella injects cheerfulness into her voice as she shakes the older woman’s hand. “It’s so nice to meet you.” 

Another pair of crystal blue eyes, framed by crow’s feet, give her a careful once-over. “Pleased to meet you as well. I understand you come to us all the way from Dorne?” 

None of the men pick up on it, but Sarella knows she’s asking what the hell she’s doing here and how she’s qualified. She meets her gaze with a cool expression of her own. “That’s correct. By way of Oldtown. I’ve been living there since I completed my Citadel studies.” 

Arching one narrow brow, Mrs. Stark nods. “I see. Well, Wyman speaks very highly of you. I’m eager to hear your insights.” 

Knowing what she’s about to tell the group, Sarella doubts that very seriously. 

And because she intended to be forthright and hasn’t had enough sleep to change course mid-stream, she lays it out exactly as she planned. 

“This campaign is not Northern enough.” 

Robb blinks and leans forward. “I’m sorry?” 

“You have a great Westerosi story. Son of one of the nation’s oldest families. A stellar academic record at Storm’s End. A tactical military prodigy who helped turn the tide of a grueling war in the Disputed Lands. You’re good-looking, charming… When you run for Prime Minister, you’ll be a shoo-in,” she says. “But Northern voters are territorial. And you’ve spent your formative years away at school, away at war, and very close to your mother’s family, who—while distinguished—are not Northerners.” 

Catelyn’s breath hitches, but it’s Theon who speaks first. “He’s a bloody war hero! Eighteen years old, he led men into Tyrosh and cleared the Volantine invaders out of their capital. Surely, that has to—”

“It’s a great story,” she interjects. “But the narrative has to begin and end with Robb Stark, Son of the North. Otherwise, we can wrap this election up in a bow and send it to Domeric Bolton.”

Wyman, whose belly doesn’t allow him to sit at the table, leans back in his seat and strokes his white beard. “What do you suggest?” 

“For starters, a visual pivot. Right now, you look like you’re walking into your constituents’ homes to talk their daughters out of their virtue. Lose the clean-shaven military look; you need to grow a beard.”

“Looking like a mountain clansman makes him more appealing to whom?” Catelyn asks.

“The everyday Northmen we’re asking to vote for him,” Sarella snaps. Remembering herself, she offers Catelyn a soft smile. “Though, he doesn’t need anything that dramatic. A five o’clock shadow will suffice.”

She turns back to Robb. “Let’s move away from the blue suits and red ties. They only highlight your Tully looks. You need grays, charcoal. If you’re doing blue? Dark navy. Family colors may not be official anymore, but when Northerners see ‘gray,’ they see ‘Starks. Old Wardens of the North and Kings of Winter.’”

“A beard. Gray suits,” Robb nods. “Simple enough. But why aren’t we talking about my policies?”

“I’m only here, Major Stark, because your proposed policies are sound. But right now, we need to make voters want to let you in the door. Then, they’ll hear you out. In the meantime,” she turns to Luwin. “Let’s start looking at the campaign’s three biggest, best ideas. We’ll need to re-work the stump speech.

“And Theon,” Sarella says to the press secretary. “Revamp the social strategy to revolve around the family’s home. Photos of the Stark kids with their dogs. Robb at Rickon’s hockey games. Play up Arya’s activism and how even when they disagree, she informs Robb’s policy-making.” 

Catelyn clears her throat. “Perhaps a segment on Good Morning Westeros with Sansa?” 

_Because voters love to see rich people getting easy favors from their rich relatives._ “Maybe something more personal? A candid one-on-one at Winterfell where Sansa asks him slightly embarrassing but humanizing questions about their childhood?” 

Theon perks up. “That would play well on YouTube.” 

Sarella points to him. “Perfect. Anywhere on the campaign trail where you can have a dog? Bring Grey Wind. Jeyne, put some time on the calendar this week to shoot lots of B-roll of Robb walking him around the estate.” 

Once more, Catelyn interrupts. “Why so much focus on my children’s pets? I’ve had a father and brother successfully run for office without carting our family’s fish tanks around.” 

“Caring for and taming an animal that reminds most people of a wolf makes your son look kind-hearted and formidable.” _And fucking fish do not._

When Robb’s mother sits back in her seat and presses her lips into a thin line, Sarella assumes she’s finished for the duration of the meeting. And thank the gods, because she can tell Robb is open to her suggestions and she’s tired of performing for Cat.

Sensing the growing tension between his mother and the rest of the room, Robb leans forward and clears his throat. “There’s no point beating my chest about policy if I can’t get anyone to listen and these recommendations are easy enough to implement, so,” he looks around the table before settling on her and flashing that boyish grin. “You heard Ms. Sand. We have our marching orders.”

Sarella bites back a self-satisfied smirk as everyone files out of the room. Everyone but Robb and his mother, that is. 

“Mother,” Robb stands. “I need a word with Sarella. I’ll get you from the house for lunch in two hours?”

The older woman casts a quick glare between Sarella and her son, hesitation written all over her face. She stands anyway, knowing she’s been politely dismissed, and leans up to kiss Robb’s cheek. “Of course, sweetheart. I’ll see you at home.” Giving Sarella another chilly once over, she bids her a tight “Good day, Ms. Sand” before leaving the conference room. 

She managed to navigate the meeting without one distraction, but being alone with Robb in the conference room flips a switch inside her. Suddenly, she notices how his shoulders fill out his sweater as he leans against the conference table and folds his arms. “I thought we settled on ‘Robb?’” he says. 

Sarella blinks. “I beg your pardon?” 

“You called me ‘Major Stark’ earlier. ‘Robb’ works. Besides. You earned it with that beating you laid on me at the dartboard last night.”

“Did getting beat by a girl bruise your ego?” 

He does a subtle visual sweep of her frame and she wonders if he’s even conscious of it. “That part was pleasant. Getting beat by a half-drunk civilian… and a _Southerner_? That hurts.”

She could save his pride and tell him that an upbringing full of archery practice gave her impeccable aim, but she senses his “wounds” are a farce. “You needed a word? Unless you just wanted to remind me of your preferred name...”

“I’m going on a hunting trip with the Greatjon in two days. We’re courting the Northern Shipworkers’ Union endorsement. It should be a formality that ends in an announcement on the spot. But… “ Robb runs a hand through his hair. “I may need…”

So this was the boy scout flaw Wyman warned her about. He’s embarrassed to ask for dirt on the union leader for leverage in their meeting. “Some additional incentives to win him over?” Sarella finishes for him. 

“Nothing too seedy or personal, please. Just… something that will make him uncomfortable.” 

She nods. “I’ll have it on your desk first thing tomorrow.” 

“Unless you shoot as well as you throw darts and would care to join us?” 

She doesn’t want _any_ parts of trekking through the snowy woods hunting elk and wild birds, but she needs to see how he handles himself. “I am, in fact, an excellent shot.” 

“My kind of lady.” 

They let the remark hang in the air until Robb straightens up. “You’re about Sansa's height so we should have hunting gear at the house for you. If you’d rather pick up your own, you can charge it to my personal account. Jeyne will have the info.” 

“Got it. Anything else before I go?” 

Robb’s blue eyes flicker with a hint of mischief. “No. That will be all."

* * *

Crunching leaves beneath Robb’s feet reminds him of hunting trips from his childhood. 

Ned Stark never enjoyed the hunt. He believed men who knew war should never make light of pulling a trigger. Yet, whenever Robert Baratheon or any other dignitaries visited the North, Ned played the polite host on a hunting trip in the Wolfswood. “The key,” he explained to Robb and his cousin Jon, “is to do well enough to give your guest a challenge. But always let them win.”

Robb took these opportunities to observe the man he was named after. He understood Robert and his father were best mates who’d endured war together. And that Robert was a famed soldier and commander. But Robb never saw majesty in the great Robert Baratheon. He told good jokes and, before he got old and fat, could send young women and grandmothers alike into blushing fits. He also grabbed at every woman who walked by (including those in the Stark household staff), goaded Ned into retelling painful battle stories, and reminded Jon every five minutes that “if your mother knew what was good for her, you’d be my son.” 

Listening to Jon Umber, known as the Greatjon by friends and foes alike, bluster about his brief service in the Regional Guard under Ned, Robb doesn’t fancy hunting any more than his father did. 

But men like Greatjon think shooting animals in the great outdoors is the apex of male bonding and more and more, Robb’s learning that 70% of politics is putting on a good show. So he trudges through the Wolfswood with Grey Wind, the Greatjon and his son, Smalljon, Theon, Robb’s childhood friend and bodyguard, Jory Cassel, and Sarella.

The latter appeared on the doorstep of his family estate at 6:00 AM in a gray sweatsuit decorated with the Citadel’s crest, hair slicked back in a ponytail and a make-up free face. Looking sexier than any woman had a right to be in that get-up, first thing in the morning. 

Gods, he thought on the drive to the Wolfswood. He sounded like that lech he was named after. 

No, he wasn’t that bad. He didn’t have a wife, a family, or base-born children sprinkled throughout the seven regions. But what would Father think?

_About you sniffing after a member of your staff? He’d climb out of the crypt and ring your head like a bell._

If the day goes as Robb suspects it will, he’ll do a couple of things that his father would frown upon. 

“Surprised husky’s your dog,” Greatjon says, cigar sticking out of the side of his mouth, eye on Grey Wind trotting through the land ahead. “They're big bastards but I hear they’re soft as cotton.” 

“We weren’t looking for attack dogs when we bought them. Winterfell has enough security.” 

Greatjon nods toward Sarella in the distance, who has her rifle trained on a wild turkey. “Your new girl. You say she’s Dornish? Looks like her people are from elsewhere.” 

“I believe her mother’s from the Summer Isles,” Robb replies.

“Pretty thing,” the older man says, eying her hungrily as Grey Wind howls ahead. “But what’s she gonna tell you about getting elected up North?” 

Robb lights his own cigar, hoping the act will calm the urge to punch the man in the throat. “You know Selwyn Tarth? She got him on the High Council for the Stormlands.” 

The Greatjon aims his rifle. “Stormlands i’nt the North.” He fires off and the elk in his sights sprints away. “Union’s concerned.” 

Spotting another elk to his left, Robb plants his feet. “About?” 

“Bad enough you look like a bloody Tully. Manderly’s managing your campaign. No matter what that tub of lard says, that’s a Southern family in Northern clothing. Then there’s the Greyjoy. Now this Dornish lass. The Union needs to know you have _our_ best interests at heart. Domeric doesn’t have outsiders on his team.” 

His eyes follow his slow-moving prey as it grazes on a patch of grass. “Bolton doesn’t give a shit about anything but seizing more power for the Boltons.” 

“Maybe so. Still going to be a struggle getting the lads on board…” 

Robb’s rifle rattles in his arms, followed by the sound of a bullet piercing flesh. “What are you saying?” 

“The bloody Wall will melt before we throw ourselves behind a team of Southerners."

“The Umbers and Starks go back more than 500 years, Jon. You’ll throw that away because you don’t fancy my campaign staff?”

“It’s not too late to clean house, son. Smalljon’s quite the leader in the Union, you know. He’d make a good addition to your team.” 

_Father, forgive me._ “Do what you must, but there will be consequences.” 

“Excuse me?” Greatjon grumbles behind him. 

Bending down to claim his elk, he looks up at Greatjon with a hard glare. “A lot of Braavosi and YiTish goods come through the Bay of Seals. And I know for a fact that some of it ends up on the black market on the other side of the Wall. Small-time stuff,” he shrugs, “but my Uncle Benjen leads the police task force North of the Wall. If he gets a tip about smuggling on your docks…” 

“What are you implying, boy?"

The veins in Robb’s neck pulse and Grey Wind’s distant barks grow closer. He’s puffing his cigar when the dog trots in from the woods and sits at his feet, wagging its tail. “Not implying anything. Turn your back on my family and the police will descend on your ports. What happens after that… is a matter of whether or not you’re breaking the law.”

“Listen here. I won’t be threatened by a boy so green—”

Robb heard rumors of the Umbers running roughshod over the ports, but he never imagined Greatjon would openly threaten him. Nonetheless, the man’s fingers twitch around his hunting knife as if he means to use it. 

Eyes trained on Greatjon, Robb squats, rubbing his husky’s smoky fur and whispering a command in his ear. 

"What’re you—”

Dark gray streaks through the air as Grey Wind pounces. With a frantic wail, Greatjon topples to the ground with the dog sitting on his chest, barking, growling, and baring his teeth within biting distance of his nose.

Robb stands over the scene, cigar in hand. Watches his dog snarl and slobber in the older man’s face. Sees pure terror in his eyes when Grey Wind’s teeth inch closer...

Finally, he pats his thigh. “To me, Grey Wind. Good boy.”

Smalljon, Jory, Theon, and Sarella emerge from the woods and find Greatjon still on the ground, sliding away from Robb and a cheerful Grey Wind.

Sarella is the first to speak while Smalljon helps his father off the ground. “Everything alright? We heard Grey Wind from the other side of the clearing.” 

Robb and Greatjon’s eyes remain locked in a mutual stare-down. “We’re good. Jon just slipped while trying to cut my elk for me.”

Smalljon shakes his head. “Told you to slow down on the flask on our way out here, Pop.”

“Aye, son. Think your old man’s had enough for the day. And Stark?” 

“Aye?” 

“Tell Greyjoy to set up the cameras at Winterfell. We’ve got an endorsement to announce.” 

_“And the race for the open People’s Council seat in the North heats up as Jon Umber, Sr., President of the Northern Shipworkers’ Union, throws the organization’s support behind the Disputed Lands war veteran, Robb Stark. Making his announcement in front of the Stark’s family home following a hunting trip, Umber said the following: ‘You learn a lot about a man on the hunt. And it’s safe to say that Robb Stark is bloody tough—a Northman, through and through. The Shipworkers’ Union is proud to endorse his candidacy for the People’s Council of Westeros.’”_

“Will I ever know exactly what happened in those woods?” 

Grey Wind sensed her presence in the study before Robb did, picking up his head from his spot in front of the fireplace where he’d been napping moments before. 

After the long day in the frigid Wolfswood, Robb invited Sarella and Theon to relax for a few hours and have dinner at Winterfell. Theon had already made arrangements to celebrate their latest PR victory with a brunette bartender from his favorite watering hole. 

Which left Sarella Sand showering, napping, and slipping into comfortable clothes under his roof. A fact that would have driven him out of his skin earlier. Still, he notes her usually straight hair hanging in wet curls around her shoulders and the hints of curvature under a pair of leggings and an oversized “Stark for the People” T-shirt when she walks into the room that had been his father’s study. Swirling Bear Island Reserve Scotch in his glass, he asks: “How’d you know where to find me?” 

“I ran into Arya on her way back from walking her dog. She’s surprisingly sweet in person. And a girl after my own heart with a pup named Nymeria.” 

The revolutionary of the family, his little sister was known all over Westeros for her role as the Youth Advocate for the Brotherhood Without Banners before starting her own “smallfolk” focused initiative, the Underfoot Project. “Just don’t get her started on wage inequality and taxing the rich.” 

“I saw her speak at a protest at the Capitol once. Reminded me of your Aunt Lyanna.”

“Don’t tell me you’re already scouting her for office.” 

With a sly smile, she settles on the other end of the old leather couch. “Just don’t be alarmed if you find my business card in her room.” Folding her ankles under her legs, her expression turns serious. “Are you going to answer my question about what happened with Umber?” 

On the floor, Grey Wind pads over to Sarella’s end of the couch. His molten gold eyes blinking as he settles on his hind legs.

Robb avoids her gaze, staring into his amber liquid drink. “I blackmailed him into supporting me.”

“Wyman and I can handle the deal-making. That’s why we’re here; we get our hands dirty so yours stay clean.” 

He shakes his head. “I knew what I signed up for when I got into politics. I needed to know I could live with myself before I asked you or Wyman to act on my behalf. You’ll never do anything I’m unwilling to do myself.”

“Robb, if you don’t mind my saying so, it doesn’t look like you’re living with it.”

Taking another gulp of scotch, he rests his head on the leather cushion. That isn’t the problem at all. 

Sarella’s giggle grabs his attention. Grey Wind is nudging at her hand with his snout until he receives his desired petting. The dog never looked more spoiled. 

He’ll later tell himself the scotch made him confess but watching her elegant fingers caress his pet, he has to bite back jealousy. “I sicced Grey Wind on Greatjon. That was the barking you heard in the woods today.” 

To his surprise, she doesn’t jolt away in fear. Instead, Sarella’s brows furrow as she looks down at Grey Wind’s bright eyes, which are wide open as if begging for forgiveness, and continues to rub and scratch his head. “What happened?” 

_He was about to pull his hunting knife on me_. Instead, the truth comes out in a tone so chilly, Robb barely recognizes his own voice. “He tested me. He needed to know that was a bad idea.”

Careful not to disturb Grey Wind, whose head is now resting cozily in her lap, she refills the nearly empty glass of scotch and pulls it toward her lips. "And you're upset because it felt good."

“Gorgeous and clairvoyant.” He says to the ceiling; as if it doesn’t count as long as it doesn’t look in her eyes. “My father’s been dead for 15 years. Do you know today was the first time I couldn’t hear his voice in my head? I kept waiting for him to scold me. To tell me there was another way. And he never showed up. 

“Now. When my decisions might guide people’s lives and I _need_ him to tell me right from wrong… I can’t hear him. I don’t know what kind of man I am without Ned Stark in my head.” 

Sarella passes the drink and resumes rubbing Grey Wind’s neck. “You’re 30 years old, Robb. You're the head of your family, you accomplished more by the time you were 21 than most people will in a lifetime. What does _your_ voice say?” 

“That I can do more good with those Union votes than I can without them. That you were right about people thinking I’m not ‘Northern’ enough and Greatjon needed to be put in his place…” He sips the scotch and feels her lip gloss mark on the glass. “That there are better ways to find out how your lips feel on mine. That you’ll sigh if I reach through those curls to pull your head back and kiss your neck.” 

When he turns to face her, her smooth brown skin is flush from her cheeks to the hint of clavicle peeking out of his campaign shirt. He’s caught by a raging desire to pull her lower lip between his teeth. “That if I take you right now on this couch, I’ll have my first good night’s sleep since the day we met.” 

The sound of her breathing his name is right out of his fantasies. Except, there's hesitancy instead of surrender in her tone. “Robb…” 

With every muscle in his body screaming at him to pin her down and bury his face in her neck, he hands her the glass and goes back to staring at the ceiling. “Now you see why I can’t trust that voice.”

* * *

Despite the dog’s relaxed position in her lap, his pulse races beneath her hand.

It’s a strange focal point when Robb, vulnerable and full of lust, is speaking in vivid detail about what he wants to do to her. And her body is taut as a bowstring imagining silk auburn locks between her fingers and covering his just-full-enough lips with hers. Not to mention the prominent swell in the center of his jogging pants...

But she’s worried Grey Wind is having some kind of seizure and that’s what’s in her voice when she says Robb’s name. 

Oddly, as soon as his master lays back on the couch, the dog calms down. 

She’s beyond words when she sets the glass on the table and starts to unfold her legs. Tired of weighing the right and wrong of whatever’s between them. In awe of the man in front of her; his honesty and wisdom, even though he’s too afraid to trust it. And yes, even his excitement at wielding power. Because, no matter what politicians say, truly “humble” people don’t seek elected office. It takes gravitas and, dare she say it, a healthy arrogance.

She saw the potential when she joined the campaign. Now she knows this is a man she can put in office. 

And definitely a man she wants to fuck on a couch by a fireplace. 

“King Robb Stark of Winterfell!” a thick Northern brogue echoes in the hall. “Nann says dinner is—” A tall, slender dark-haired man with a pair of curious gray eyes stands in the study’s doorway. “Oh. Sorry for interrupting. Didn’t know you had a guest.” 

Swiping a hand over his face, Robb stands. “Jon,” he says to the man at the door, “meet Sarella Sand, my Deputy Campaign Manager. Sarella, my cousin and one of NPD’s finest, Detective Jon Snow.” 

As the two shake hands, she blinks in slow recognition. “Wait. You’re Ambassador Lyanna Stark’s son. You were the baby swaddled on her chest in that World Council photo.” 

“He gives me shit,” Robb says. “But our Jon’s been a celebrity since he was at his mother’s teet.” 

“You know we bastard born live in the shadows of our trueborn relatives,” Jon says with a smile. “Nice to meet you, Sarella. What part of Dorne are you from?” 

“Sunspear,” she answers reluctantly. 

Realization falls over his delicate features. “A _royal_ Dornish bastard? Why in seven hells are you up here freezing your teets off for this fucker?” 

Robb slaps Jon on the chest. “Snow. Language.” 

“After the way I kicked your ass in darts the other night, Robb, you should know I’m no gentle lady.” 

Jon looks impressed. “I think you’ve just introduced me to my new best mate, Stark. Sarella, tell me all about how you humiliated the Young Wolf. Spare no detail.” 

Robb laughs genuinely then. Deep and rich with a smile lighting his eyes. A grave contrast to the heat and tension in the room before Jon arrived. Walking to dinner between the two Stark men, she’s grateful for the distraction. 

She’d been one well-timed interruption away from fucking her boss. 

Dinner in Winterfell is a rowdy affair, despite the table being short a couple of Starks. Sansa’s far off at her apartment in King’s Landing while Catelyn was further north, visiting Bran at university. Robb, Jon, and Arya trade loud barbs over roasted venison and gravy, wild rice, green beans, and ale while their dogs romp outside just below the kitchen window. Halfway through the meal, Robb’s teenaged doppelganger with a mess of red curls and a stocky frame comes in carrying hockey gear and introduces himself as Rickon. 

“Mum would kill you for that gym bag in the kitchen,” Arya says to the boy. 

Rickon snatches a dinner roll from the center of the table and looks toward his sister’s mug of ale. “Aye. Let’s make sure we don’t tell her. Since we’re keeping secrets…” 

“Touch that ale... ” Robb warns.

The teenager rolls his bright blue eyes. “And you’ll ring my head like a bell.”

“I’d knock him on his arse before you had the chance,” Arya teases, claiming her mug. When Jon reaches for a second helping of venison, she slaps his arm. “When I told you Robb brought home elk, that didn’t mean ‘Come over and eat all of it.’” 

Robb chimes in, his Northern accent noticeably thicker than his campaign voice. “You’d think your red-headed lass doesn’t feed you, Snow.” 

“Oh, I’m well-fed, Stark. You should worry about getting a lass of your own.” 

“Just come right out and say you’re stuffin' her,” Rickon says through a mouthful of food. “I’m seventeen; not seven.”

“Hush it, Pup,” Jon quips, pointing at Rickon. “And mind your own knob. I’m sure you’re used to it.” 

Arya pushes away from the table. “If you’re all gonna talk about your pricks, I’m out of here.” 

“Alright, alright!” Robb tries to hold in his smile. “That’s enough. You’re embarrassing me in front of my campaign staff. She might quit now that she knows what kind of ruffians we are.”

Sarella was silent for most of the meal, quietly enjoying the family’s playful dynamic. And Robb was wrong. It was gold. She can’t believe he’s been hiding all this warmth and relatability behind stiff suits and military victories on foreign soil.

Though, thinking of his mother, she has a good idea why. 

“My family dinner table is hardly a sept,” she says. “No judgment from me. But I should get going. We start debate prep tomorrow and I want to be well-rested.”

“Our guest beds are better than any stuffy hotel in town,” Arya says. “Just stay.”

Robb and Sarella share a brief look before he intervenes. “So you lot and the dogs can keep her up all night? Let’s respect Sarella’s need for peace and quiet.” His eyes search hers for permission. “I’ll help with your bags.” 

“I’d appreciate that, yes.” Getting up from the table, Sarella smiles at her hosts. “Thank you again for having me. This was lovely.” 

“Jon,” Robb calls to his cousin on his way out. “Don’t let Rickon leave this kitchen without putting away his bags and loading the dishwasher.” 

“Aye,” Jon replies. “You heard him, Pup. Get moving.”

The pleasant mood from dinner lingers as Robb and Sarella make their way through the halls. When they cross the threshold into the guest room, she waits until they have a safe amount of distance between them before she speaks. “About earlier…” 

Robb shoves his hands in his pockets. “I should apologize for—”

“Did you mean what you said?” 

He hesitates. 

"You don’t have to be ‘Ned’s boy’ when you’re talking to me. I know what it means to the North. But be ‘Robb’ with me. No matter where it takes us; don’t ever feel like I can’t handle you being you.” 

Robb raises a brow. “‘No matter where’ it takes us?” 

“I’m not fucking you in this house tonight if that’s what you’re asking,” she offers a small smile. “Nor will you escort me to my hotel. But…” she sighs. “I can’t say what will or won’t happen tomorrow or the night after that.” 

“That’s dangerous, Sarella.” 

Crossing the room, she hands him her bags. “And probably stupid. But watching you today… You have _it._ And I _want_ to be on this team. We can’t work together if we’re tip-toeing around each other, so. One day at a time.”

“One day at a time,” he repeats with a ponderous expression. Then he steps through the entryway, pushes the door closed with his foot, and closes the space between them.

She admired his body before, his height and broad shoulders. But she never noticed the width of his chest. How easily he could fold her slim body into his. A telltale heat blooms at the base of her spine. “Did you hear what I said?” 

Blue eyes burning into hers, he nods. “You said I can be honest with you,” He plants his palm on the wall behind her head. “And I can’t fuck you against this wall right now."

The scent of tobacco, vanilla, and a hint of the scotch they shared earlier fills her nostrils. Her stomach flutters as fingertips graze her waist. The slight contact is enough to elicit a deep rumble from his chest.

Then his lips are on her cheek, feather-soft; the beginnings of the beard she asked him to grow tickling her skin. The hand on her waist pulls her body against his and he’s as warm and firm as she knew he’d be. 

His next words are whispered against her mouth. “What about this?” He nips at her bottom lip. “I can have this. Can’t I?” 

His tone seeks affirmation, not permission. 

The kiss stops time. Reduces the world to his mouth on hers; exploring, taking, savoring. Her hands slide into his hair, threading the thick waves through her fingers as his hot tongue curls into her mouth. Advancing, retreating. Mimicking what she wants him to do with the bulge digging into her abdomen. 

Her vision blurs when he sweeps up a handful of hair and traces a path to the crook of her neck, spurred on by her soft sigh. 

“Tell me when to stop, Sarella. Otherwise, I won’t.” A bite on her neck punctuates the point.

With all the willpower she can muster, she tightens her grip on his hair and pulls, hoping to dislodge his mouth from her skin. 

Instead, her back hits the wall, he groans a frustrated “Fuck,” and she has to stop her hips from rocking into him.

Her “okay” is hardly a whisper. Sounds like an invitation, even to her own ear. _C’mon, Sarella._ Pressing her hands into his chest, she tries again. “Okay, Robb.” 

He rests his forehead on her shoulder and pushes out a heavy breath. “Okay.” 

Once her hair is presentable and he’s no longer sporting a tent in his pants, they head downstairs where a car is waiting for her. 

“You’ll call me when you get in?” he asks after tucking her bags in the trunk. She can already hear him filling her imagination with all the things he wishes he could do to her.

“C’mon,” he says with a laugh. “I can’t bite you through the phone.” 

“How about I text? And we both go to sleep at a decent hour because tomorrow’s a busy day,” she looks around playfully. “You don’t have a dog to persuade me with at the moment, so that’s my final offer.” 

“Too soon.” Still, he’s smiling. Relaxed and youthful with no trace of the man who pinned her to a wall earlier. “Good night, Ms. Sand. I’ll be waiting for that text.” 

Driving away from the estate, Sarella’s certain he’ll be waiting for more than a text going forward. 

And so will she… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have realized how big of a Robb Stark fangirl I am until I started writing this story. 
> 
> This pairing was the first I had in mind before I started writing fic, so I'm a little carried away finally putting it on the page. My main goal is to have them mirror the heat of Olivia & Fitz without becoming too tortured or insufferable. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Part Two

_*****THREE YEARS PRIOR***** _

Catelyn Tully-Stark should have been a Prime Minister’s wife. 

That was her father’s intention thirty-four years ago when he invited the Governor of the North and his sons to Riverrun for dinner. The Governor and her father were old war buddies who both ended up in politics; Hoster Tully representing the Riverlands on the High Council and Rickard Stark as a two-term Governor of Westeros’s Northern region.

According to Hoster, the eldest Stark boy, a fighter pilot in Westeros’s Air Guard, was on track to be a political force. He’d almost certainly follow his father into the Governor’s office one day, and barring any major scandals or screw-ups, would brand himself as “Cregan Stark reborn” and become the first Stark since to occupy the Prime Minister’s seat. “He’s a bit of a hothead. And you may have to live with some indiscretions,” her father warned her. “But nothing you can’t handle.” 

All this before she’d laid eyes on Brandon Stark in person. Though once she saw his tall, athletic body filling out his Air Guard uniform, those laughing gray eyes, and cropped black hair, Catelyn would have followed him anywhere. 

That dream died in a plane crash over the Narrow Sea.

Another Stark, more stoic and less ambitious, would be the one she followed North. A soldier, weary of politics, wanting a quiet life and to serve his region’s people directly; as a firefighter, not behind a Governor’s desk. 

So Catelyn birthed five Stark children and ran the family estate and ingratiated herself with the other NFD wives. And because Eddard was a Stark, _the_ Stark in Winterfell after his father died, it didn’t matter that he was unambitious—leadership found him anyway. Before Arya could say “Da,” Ned made Fire Chief and later, Commissioner.

There was a spark of hope for more when Robert Baratheon was elected Prime Minister and begged Ned to come to the Capitol and serve as deputy, but Ned refused. “My duty is to the North,” he’d said in the icy tone that let her know there’d be no debate. 

So, "Mrs. Commish" it was. She hosted dinners, family outings, and barbeques; organized bake sales, car washes, and annual galas. Not what she had in mind, but Catelyn made do. 

When a group of Drowned God fanatics blew up a courthouse on Bear Island and Ned never returned home from the scene, she made do with that, as well. 

On the 15th anniversary of the Bear Island Attack, Catelyn sits on an outdoor stage, listening to her eldest son speak. All of her children are present—even Sansa, who pretends planes don’t fly north of the Trident—as are Benjen and Lyanna’s son, donning their crisp policemen’s uniforms to hear Robb honor the memories of the fallen. 

She hates his charcoal gray suit. And that beard. It’s well-trimmed but still too rugged. He'd looked so much like old photos of her father in rich blues with his clean face. Like a classic statesman. 

Watching him grow up, Catelyn thought her eldest was the perfect combination of his parents. Her family’s fair features and charisma with Ned’s steadiness and sense of duty. A firstborn son of an old family with a powerful name gave him more confidence than either of his parents ever possessed. And that brain of his. He tested into the Storm’s End Military Academy at 15 years old when most applicants weren’t accepted until 18. He would have started immediately if Ned’s death hadn’t thrown their lives into a tailspin. By his 16th name day, he was off to school and by 18 he was leading Westerosi forces into Tyrosh to remove Volantine invaders from their capital. “The Young Wolf,” they called him. 

Perhaps that’s what’s so strange about this new look. It’s so… Stark. Even in its tidiness, it channels something woodsy and primal. Which was fine for the North, but all of Westeros needs to look at him and see “Future Prime Minister.” Not just a candidate for Northern Councilman in the lower legislative body. 

But her word doesn’t matter much to him these days. All Robb can see is the “wisdom” of his new deputy campaign manager. _And that’s not all he’s seeing either_ , Catelyn thinks, stealing a glimpse at Sarella Sand standing behind the audience with a videographer.

What was a mother’s counsel against a cunning exotic beauty? 

She hides it well enough behind those conservative blouses and tailored jackets, and her proper Common Tongue only lightly layered with the sing-song tones of the Summer Isles and tongue-heavy Dornish drawl. But the woman’s father is notorious. Eight bastard daughters, four of them by as many women. One of them a septa, no less. 

All the Citadel links and clever ideas in the world can’t wash _that_ blood away. 

Robb's speech ends with thunderous applause and Catelyn joins in the standing ovation. 

"Your son's become an impressive speaker."

She's mid-conversation with a group of NFD wives when a familiar cool tone interrupts. Catelyn steels herself before turning to face the North's governor. "Governor Dustin. Good to see you."

Barbrey Riswell Dustin's always been a tall woman. Now in her late 40s, she remains as towering and straight-shouldered as always; with gray and blonde hair framing her handsome face. Catelyn notes that the woman is dressed in a gray pantsuit; a color she seems to prefer at public events where Catelyn is present. "You as well, Catelyn. Robb's turning into a formidable candidate. You must be proud."

"Yes," she answers with a gracious nod. "He's been making me proud for quite some time. Can we count on your endorsement?" 

Barbrey's chuckle doesn't meet her eyes. "It would be untoward to endorse my nephew or your son. I’ll let the lads duke it out. At least Domeric won't come gunning for my job in four years. Can't say the same of Robb."

"One race at a time, Governor. But it's easy to see my son has a bright future ahead of him."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll see to that, Catelyn. Not the 'Governor Stark' you wanted but you were always good at making the most of consolation prizes."

For such an accomplished woman, Catelyn cannot, for the life of her, understand why Barbrey insists on living thirty years in the past. She'd been involved with Brandon Stark—after he and Catelyn announced their engagement— when his plane crashed. And no event passed without Barbrey reminding her. 

"They make a handsome pair."

Catelyn snaps out of her thoughts. "I beg your pardon?"

Barbrey points to the stage where Robb and Sarella are laughing with Lyanna's son. "Oh," this time, the governor's icy blue eyes are smiling as she takes in Catelyn’s expression. "You don't approve? Best run along and break that up then. Can't have a Stark man doing anything so inconvenient as falling in love."

* * *

On the drive to Bear Island, Sarella sat next to Wyman in the truck, following along on her iPad as Robb rehearsed the speech that they finished at 2:00 AM that morning. The pesky D-block that had been the source of her frustration flowing easily through the lighter version of his Northern accent; the proper voice that worked for greater Westeros, yet made the North feel like he was one of their own.

"You flubbed that last line in paragraph 20," she corrected him. "It's 'But the North does not only remember—we survive.' You said 'The North does not only remember—the North survives.'"

"I thought we settled on the repetition?" Robb asked from the backseat. "We went at it for quite a bit last night, but I believe I won that battle."

A memory flashed in her mind. Straddling him in one of the folding chairs in the office, her thighs locked around his hips and pencil skirt bunched up around her waist. The spine-tingling climax that rocked her when she bore down and held him deep inside her...

"You didn't. And it's 'we survive.'"

Arriving at the Bear Island Court House Memorial ground, she shook hands and chatted up Northern dignitaries. Adjusted her jacket when she caught Greatjon Umber staring too hard. Chatted with Robb's sister Sansa, who she'd met a few times when her clients went on _Good Morning, Westeros_. Confirmed with the event coordinator that Mrs. Stark and Governor Dustin would be seated on opposite sides of the stage since, apparently, the two women couldn’t stand each other.

Standing in the back of the audience with the videographer, Sarella lets her eyes wander over Robb’s frame in the charcoal gray suit. Then her mind wanders back to campaign headquarters where—after re-writing the final section of today’s speech four times—they’d finally… 

_Finally_. 

At 1:00 AM, she was ready to strangle him. 

“Sarella. This draft is fine.” 

She continued typing, not meeting his tired eyes. “If you wanted ‘fine,’ you should have hired someone else. Read it now.” 

Blowing out a deep breath, Robb stood, phone in hand and began to pace around the conference room reciting the third edit of the same paragraph they’d been writing for the last two hours. They were getting there. 

But it still wasn’t enough. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Sarella!” His exhaustion making “fucking” sound like “fookin.” 

Rubbing her temples, Sarella slid away from her computer to face him. “You are down three points in the polls. Which—if you learned any math with your advanced orienteering course work at the Academy—is an improvement over your previous six-point gap, but still losing. The 15th anniversary of the day your father died saving the people you want to vote for you is not a time to deliver ‘fine.' If you need to occupy yourself while I work, go play Cyvasse. Or take a nap. Or jerk off, if it pleases you. But you’re not leaving this _fucking_ office until this speech is flawless.” 

He rounded on her, his eyes narrow and cold. “You work for me, remember?” 

Her tone was sharp when she replied. “Yes. In fact, I’m painfully aware of that right now as it seems I’m the only one who _is_ working.”

He didn't respond; just walked out of the room. A few minutes later, a soda can and a bag of chips appeared at her side while she banged angry fingertips into her keyboard. “We both sound like we could use a Snickers.” 

She ignored the offering. “Read this. From the beginning.” 

He stood in the middle of the conference room, one hand in the pocket of his dark slacks, the other holding his phone, mouthing the words to himself. 

“That…” he mumbled when he finished reciting the speech from the beginning. “Is bloody brilliant.” 

“That’s why we don’t settle for ‘fine,'" she tossed the chips across the table. “If this is your apology, it's insufficient."

“King Robb strikes again,” he mumbled, shaking his head at himself.

She looked at him quizzically. 

“Jon calls me ‘King Robb’ when I forget myself. We, uh, had our share of scraps growing up that started with him saying ‘You’re not the boss of me.' Let’s just say command came naturally before the military.” 

“Still not hearing an apology.” 

He’d been looking down at his feet, rubbing the back of his neck as he spoke. When his eyes met hers, she recognized the heat flickering in them. 

It had been a week since their encounter in the Winterfell guest room. She had the feeling he expected her to drop trou the next time he saw her, but she hadn't. She needed to know she could manage her attraction to him alongside getting him elected. As much as she wanted him to act out every promise he made in their late-night phone conversations, she was in the North foremost to do a job. The candidate could wait.

Or could he? 

“Don’t even think about it, Stark,” Sarella said cooly, in direct contrast to her body’s reaction. 

“You’re mistaken if you think I can look at you and _not_ think about it,” he said with a grin. “But truly. I'm sorry. You're a valuable member of my team and shouldn’t be spoken to that way.” 

Seven hells, he was handsome. He kept his new mustache and beard cropped close to his face, framing his kissable lips. And it was criminal for anyone to look so good in rolled-up shirt sleeves, his wide shoulders filling out the crisp Oxford shirt. She should have been angry, but she couldn't help but notice they were alone, in the dark hours between midnight and morning. 

And he owed her restitution for his temper tantrum.

“Get on your knees.” 

He blinked and tilted his head. It reminded her of Grey Wind.

Sarella folded her arms. “You say you forgot yourself. Every good leader should remember how to follow, so.” Crossing her legs, she nodded at the spot in front of her feet. “I don’t intend to ask twice, Your Grace."

She’d commanded him, but as he stalked across the room, Sarella wasn’t sure if she was the predator or the prey. Kneeling before her, he caressed up her calf and bit his lower lip, his voice full of gravel when he said: “Open up for me.” 

With her legs draped over his shoulders, she spread her hips as wide as they'd go in the confines of her skirt. One hand buried in Robb's hair and the other grasping the back of the chair as he worked her with long, lazy licks; savoring the taste of her and moaning in appreciation.

As he pressed deeper, more urgently into her core, capturing her flowering lips with his, her spine turned to liquid, curling in to present her body as tribute to his conquering tongue when it breached her entrance. With a low chuckle, he withdrew, replacing his tongue with two teasing digits. "This is where you really want me, isn't it?"

She answered by pushing her hips against his hand. Seeking. Needing. Skirting on the edge of a tidal wave.

A gentle pull of his lips and she crested. 

Her back bucked off the chair as the wave rolled through her lower body, tingling down to her toes. He kept up a hint of pressure while she fluttered around his fingers, her body greedily begging for more even as she slumped against the chair catching her breath.

She came to life when he lifted her onto the table. 

He looked delectable. His typically-neat tresses disheveled, unbuttoned shirt revealing a chiseled chest covered in fine russet-colored hair, desire threatening to burst through his pants.

Before she could discard her blouse, he closed his hands around hers, staring hungrily at the cleavage in her pale lace bra. "I like you like this. Prim and proper, but…" His eyes darkened as he slipped a hand between her slick thighs. "Not."

She unzipped his slacks, pleased with the warm steel that rose up to greet her. His breath grew heavy in her ear as she stroked him.

"Sarella. It won't be gentle," he warned.

She saw it play out before he moved on her. Him holding her legs open. Pushing into her, hard and demanding. Stretching her with delicious pain. Felt his hot mouth consume her breasts; licking, nibbling, feasting on the pebbled flesh. Kisses searing up her throat to possess her mouth, his tongue lacing around hers seeking submission. Heard her breathing turn frantic and gasping, her moans echoing through the empty office. His whispered curses and groans while their bodies bathed in the inferno they'd slowly stoked since that night in the pub.

She leaned back on the table and teased a fingertip up her thigh. "Well," Her voice was thick and unrecognizable to her own ears. "Then don't be gentle."

* * *

**_***PRESENT DAY***_ **

Robb wasn’t a “love at first fuck” guy, so he wouldn’t say that he knew he loved Sarella Sand the first time he slid inside her. But that night in his campaign headquarters shifted the earth beneath him in ways he wouldn’t understand until months later. 

She wasn't his first assertive woman. After all, he lost his virginity with Dacey Mormont, who could pin him as easily as he pinned her. And his female classmates at the Military Academy were no shrinking violets, either. His reputation as a young but fierce battle commander made him a magnet for women looking to prove themselves; in it specifically for the fight.

Sarella sitting in his campaign office, her spine straight and legs pointed like a ballerina, commanding him with the expectation of immediate obedience? That was new.

More than that, she understood what he needed before he felt comfortable expressing it. He didn't just want to fuck her. He wanted to burn away the memory of any man who came before him and leave scorched Earth for anyone who came after. He was teetering on the edge of madness, holding on to what little control he had left when he confessed that he couldn't be gentle with her. 

He thought "then, don't be gentle" was his undoing. Sheathing himself inside her, finding her so wet and so willing to take exactly what he wanted to give… that did it.

Robb's still in control of himself when he kneels between her spread legs on the hotel bed.

He's drawn to the simple black lace covering her sex and fingers its edges, careful not to disrupt her pleasuring herself. "I like these." 

Her chuckle prompts him to ask what’s funny.

"I spent last night at the office and sent Jon to grab some clothes for me. He picked these out."

His rational mind, the part that ran the show until that very moment, hears her clearly.

It's his irrational mind that reaches into the warm, slippery fabric and growls "Stop."

Jon is his cousin. More than that, his brother. He envies how his kin and the love of his life finish each other’s sentences, but he knows they're more siblings than work spouses. When Jon left the North after losing his girlfriend Ygritte, he promised Robb he’d guard Sarella’s life with his own. And since moving to Old Town, he’s been their go-between as if they were teenagers sneaking behind their parents’ backs instead of 30something professionals.

None of this stops Robb's blood from surging, the corners of his vision turning black as he snatches the flimsy cloth from Sarella's body; the quiet rip and her shocked gasp making sweet music to his ears.

“That was rude…” she moans as he pushes two fingers inside of her, the wet grip giving away how she really feels about his display of jealousy. 

“What else has my cousin touched, Sarella? Hm?” 

He doesn’t look in her eyes, preferring to watch her legs squirm and stomach muscles tighten while he plays with her. When she attempts to retreat, he lays a palm on her pelvis, holding her in place. 

His gaze travels up her abdomen, past her breasts in that bra Jon picked out (that will have to go before the night ends), past her elegant clavicle, the bottom lip she’s clutching with her teeth, to her closed eyes. With his thumb, he teases circles around her clit, staying just shy of where she wants him. “Has _anyone_ else touched you here? Or is it still mine?” 

At this, her eyes snap open. And the hard glare almost stops Robb in his tracks. 

“You’re in no position to make that claim.” 

Now is not the time for this conversation. Not with her practically leaking around his fingers. While he’s hard to bursting with the need to be inside her. They should stop and discuss his engagement to Roslin Frey openly and honestly. He should let her drop her guard and admit that she’s hurting. That beneath their strategic minds and ambitions, they’re still human beings forced to deny a connection that feels as natural and necessary as breathing. 

Instead, he pulls down his boxers and replaces his teasing fingers with his erection, wetting the tip with her arousal. “And whose fault is that?” Robb asks with a quirk of his brow. “Who told me I needed a wife, Sarella?” 

“Robb… don’t…” 

_Don’t_. Not “Ice,” their safe word. But _don’t_. 

He’s right at her entrance. Once more on the edge of his sanity, like he’d been in his campaign office that first night. The breach is just as sweet. Just as tight. Just as ready as always. He should snatch her legs back and drive into her, exorcising the months apart with one brutal thrust. 

Except. 

No. 

She could play the cool, detached mastermind. In a professional setting, he loved it. Loved that she was always so self-contained and in control. Right now, he needs something else. More than the need to claim her, he needs to know that _she_ knows where she stands. 

The poised Queen to his occasionally hot-headed King. A shiny bauble on Roslin’s finger doesn’t change that.

So he lingers just barely inside of her, one stroke away from putting them both out of their misery. 

“Tell me who I want, Sarella.”


	3. Part Three

**_***THREE YEARS PRIOR***_ **

This man in this suit. 

It’s hard for Robb Stark to look _bad._ With his ocean eyes, easy smile, and hockey player physique, he’d be sexy in a clown costume. Draped in a charcoal gray Tom Ford suit, his 5 o’clock shadow trimmed to perfection, twenty minutes after giving one of his best speeches yet, he looks like… 

_A man you’d fuck on a conference table._

Robb’s hearty laughter brings Sarella back to the present, where she’s standing on the stage after his Bear Island Memorial speech discussing the upcoming Stark family photoshoot at Winterfell with Robb and Jon. “You’ll come by?” Robb asks.

Jon eyes him warily. "You need me there? Not sure what your bastard cop cousin adds to your campaign.”

"Your mother's a legend," Sarella interjects. "Being a cop further emphasizes the Starks’ dedication to serving the North. And that face…" she gestures between Robb’s rugged handsomeness and broad body and Jon’s sharp, ethereal bone structure and lithe frame. "...the two of you on camera will break hearts." 

"Listen to her, Snow," Robb says, waving down a group of firefighters. "While she's still asking nicely. The bite's far worse than the rattle."

He walks away, slapping Jon on the back as he goes. She bites back a smile. "Confusing vipers and rattlesnakes aside, he's right."

He casts a curious glare between Sarella and Robb before giving her a knowing smile. "He's got his hands full with you, doesn't he?"

"I'm only a handful to my opposition, Jon," she replies, avoiding the implication.

"Well, I'm sure you know your shit, but it's Catelyn I'm worried about."

"Why?"

Jon shrugs. "She won't want 'Lyanna's son' mistaken for a member of the picture-perfect Tully-Stark clan."

"Weren't you all raised together?" As far as she knows, Jon came to live at Winterfell as a young man because Lyanna didn't want him bouncing around Essos for the sake of her career.

"Aye. But after Uncle Ned died, everyone agreed I'd be better off at Benjen's.”

She wonders about his father's family but knowing how she abhors fielding questions about Oberyn’s reputation, decides not to pry. "I work for the campaign; not Catelyn. And Robb wants you involved, so…" she pulls out her phone to send him a calendar invite. “We’ll see you at Winterfell two weeks from today? 9:00 AM?”

"Alright, Sand. Don't say I didn't warn you."

After Wyman’s warning to “tread lightly” with Mrs. Tully-Stark, Sarella expected her to be a minor nuisance, but something in Jon’s tone makes her think she needs to take some precautions. Especially now that she and Robb are… 

If Catelyn hated her ideas before, she’ll be apoplectic if she learns Sarella had her precious baby boy on his knees in the office after hours. Sarella smirks at the thought as she scrolls her contacts. She knows just who to call. 

“Two calls in one month, Little Sister?” Her second-eldest sister says on the other line. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Checking on my favorite Dornish diplomat. How’s life in the Capitol?” 

The result of their father’s tryst with a Volantine spy, Nymeria etched out a career in international relations at the Dornish embassy at Harrenhal. Her work isn’t as clandestine as her mother’s, but hob-knobbing with the upper echelon social circles at the Capitol gives her access to just as much intel. “Sarella,” she says firmly. “I’m en route to a champagne brunch on a yacht in the Blackwater. Skip the pleasantries.”

She pictures her sister gliding down the street in her Giuseppes, radiant in a sea of drab suits and practical pumps. “I need you to check on the Tully family. Any word on the streets of the Capitol would help.” 

A car horn blares and Nymeria swears loudly in low Valyrian. “I thought you were using that weirdo in Old Town for this stuff?” 

“First of all, his name is Sam,” Sarella says of her former Citadel classmate and expert hacker. “And he’s better at tracing paper trails. I’m looking for information you come across in your social circles…” 

“Mistresses and courtesans and the like. No problem. I’ll call my contacts at Chataya’s and see what comes up," she pauses. "Is this about the blue-eyed ginger with the size 42 chest who needed the rack of Tom Ford suits?"

As if she needs a reminder of Robb in that suit. Her sister would make an incredible stylist if she didn't live for the thrill of political intrigue. 

Like she did with Jon earlier, Sarella ignores Nym's implication. Tapping “confirm” on her phone, she smiles. “You will receive my gratitude in the form of a Givenchy delivery in 2-3 business days.” 

“You always _were_ my favorite sister,” Nym replies. “I’ll check-in at the end of the week.” 

* * *

Robb’s eyes follow his deputy campaign manager strutting across the Winterfell yard, captivated by the way her dark jeans hug those long, gorgeous legs of hers. He learned, after his first night at her hotel, that she starts every day with a 5k run. A routine that not even his teasing mouth or seeking hands can disrupt, much to his chagrin. However, the sight of her slender muscles flexing against the denim makes him appreciate her discipline, even if it sometimes leaves him gripping his morning wood alone in her hotel bed.

Then there’s her oversized _Stark for the People_ T-shirt, the same shirt she wore the night they first kissed. She’s tied the loose bottom at her waist, showing off the subtle curve of her hips. His name emblazoned across her chest triggers something in him that he can’t put his finger on. Something that has him discreetly adjusting himself in his pants. _Down boy_ , he thinks watching Grey Wind trot across the yard to plant himself at her feet, tail wagging and beseeching her attention with his big, gold eyes. 

_Spoiled_. But if Robb’s honest with himself, he’s no better. Tangling with her sharp mind by day and exploring her svelte, soft body by night makes campaigning downright enjoyable. It takes all of his self-control not to pull her in a quiet corner to feel those strong thighs in his hands. Or locked around his neck. Guess he can’t blame Grey Wind for panting at her feet.

The day is turning out better than he imagined. He wasn’t enthusiastic about “A Day in the Life at Winterfell” when Sarella and Theon pitched it. Posing for photos is a necessary evil, but standing around his home feigning good cheer for social media feels too much like a mummer’s show. 

He forgets that his siblings can’t do “staged” if they wanted to. With all six Stark offspring in one place, the jokes and jibes roll easily. And Sarella fits right in, slicing Theon to the quick when his tongue gets too sharp, impassioned conversations with Arya about whichever issue du jour has her riled up this week. When the cameras roll, she directs everything effortlessly. Almost like… 

A lady of the house.

_Shit, Stark. Get a hold of yourself._

Even Sansa, who is a pro at faking for the camera, is relaxed and in her element, catching up with Jeyne Poole and swatting at Rickon who has probably made some bawdy quip that he has no business making at his age. She’s usually distant when she comes to Winterfell. On the phone preoccupied with work and her demanding social life in King’s Landing. Today, she seems relieved, if not exhausted.

"Sarella Sand, heh?" His sister asks as they stroll around the courtyard between takes of the informal interview they're filming for YouTube. "I may as well congratulate you now, Councilman Stark."

"I still have to run the race, Sansa."

"Remember that Lolys Stokeworth interview after she accused the City Guard of covering up her sexual assault? Sarella prepped her. I’ve seen my share of aggressive handlers, but never anything like that. She doesn’t lose.” 

Recalling how she stayed on his ass until his speech was perfect, Robb's inclined to agree. “So, how’re things in King’s Landing?” he asks. If they keep talking about Sarella, he’ll end up smiling like a dope.

“Joff and I are looking at penthouses.” There’s not a shred of enthusiasm in her bright blue eyes as she makes the announcement. “Between the station, my charity obligations, and talking to realtors, I haven’t much of a life.”

He notes how empty she sounds, but after he and Jon threatened to beat Joffrey Baratheon’s “brains out of his pretty blonde head—Prime Minister’s son or not” if the twat ever mistreated Sansa, his mother asked him to stay out of his sisters’ romantic lives. He doesn’t worry much about Arya, who believes “traditional monogamy is an antiquated notion” and refuses to call the Brotherhood Without Banners activist that she sees on-and-off her “boyfriend.” But Sansa, who values the appearance of her life more than its contents? With that entitled Baratheon prick? It’s a recipe for a disaster that Robb worries he’ll have to clean up one day. 

She follows up with a smirk. “You can thank me later for buying you time with Mum.” 

If their mother had her way, she would have arranged marriages for him and Sansa before they were sixteen. Her thirty-year-old son being one of Westeros’s most eligible bachelors doesn’t sit well with her at all. And she never misses a chance to remind him. 

“Don’t rush into cohabitating for my benefit.” He’s only half-teasing. He isn’t ready for the teeth-gritting required to endure Joffrey as a good-brother. “It would take the strength of all Seven Gods to pull Mum’s foot out of my ass about marriage.” 

“Speaking of which…” Sansa nods over his shoulder. “Incoming.” 

She conveniently decides to help Theon set up the next camera shot as Catelyn stalks across the yard, her mouth fixed in a tight line. 

This should be fun. 

“I wasn’t aware that your cousin was filming with us today,” she says, motioning to Jon taking photos with Arya and Bran. 

“It’s a family shoot. I asked him to come.” 

His mother sighs and Robb has a bad feeling he knows where the conversation is headed. “I… Of course, he’s family. And he’s grown into a fine young man. But are you sure his presence sends the right message?” She pauses. “Your new advisor. She comes from…” 

Robb raises a brow.

“Ms. Sand may not understand that not all of your voters share Lyanna’s… values.” 

“The value that we all share is that Starks stick together. Father and Benjen stepping up to help raise Jon while Aunt Lyanna was overseas shows we’re a strong, tight-knit family. Why wouldn’t my campaign put that on display?”

“Everyone isn’t as modern as you think, Robb. Some people still frown upon women forgoing the sanctity of marriage and running about the world as they please. You’d do well to keep that in mind.” 

He folds his arms. “‘Some people,’ Mother? Or you?” 

“If you want to make me the ‘evil step-aunt’ to tell yourself you don’t have to listen to me? Fine,” His mother’s blue eyes narrow as she drops her voice. “Lyanna may be a role model for so-called modern women who are too _special_ to adhere to society’s rules. But some people find birthing children out of wedlock and deciding you’re ‘too busy’ to raise them distasteful.” 

He’s heard this shit before. In hushed whispers between his parents when they thought he couldn’t hear them. “Where is the boy’s father?” his mother hissed. “Why isn’t his family raising him? Gods be good, Ned, who has a child with a man without knowing where he comes from?” 

“Catelyn. He is my blood,” his father’s voice was as thin and sharp as an icicle. “He will live here. End of discussion.” 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Robb takes a deep breath. “Do you feel better now? Getting that off of your chest?” 

“Robb, I just want what’s—”

“Because I don’t want to hear it again. Not in my father’s house. My aunt is a Stark. Her son, last name be damned, is a Stark. You will not speak that way in my presence.”

For a moment, he thinks she’ll ring him up the side of his head. Instead, it’s as if _he’s_ slapped _her_. 

Seven hells. 

He’s about to apologize when her face hardens. “And who was here, raising all these _Starks_ after your father died? Where was your _famous_ aunt when _I_ was left running this house, acting as the head of this family until you were old enough to step in?”

He loves his mother; doesn’t deny that raising five kids after losing a husband is more than any woman should bear, but her old resentments and frustration can’t poison his campaign. And certainly won’t poison his relationship with Jon and Lyanna. “But I have stepped in, Mother,” he says. “And as long as I’m the head of this family, the Starks, _all of us_ , are a unit. Not little factions sniping at each other. If you’d like to participate in today’s shoot as a member of that unit, I’d love to have you here. If you can’t…” Robb’s eyes cut across the yard to the house. 

Neither of them moves, letting the weight of his words fall between them. This isn’t their first difficult conversation, she’s the opinionated mother of a strong-willed son, but never anything this tense. Would Father have gone this far? 

He hears Sarella’s words in his head: _“You’re 30 years old, Robb. What does YOUR voice say?”_

That he doesn’t have time for this shit. 

If he wanted his mother to run his campaign, he would not have hired Wyman and Sarella. As far as her issues with Jon and Lyanna, he never liked the way Catelyn spoke of Jon. He couldn’t protect Jon as a teenager, but now that Winterfell is _his_ , he will. 

So he doesn’t soften his expression. Or flash her a smile and loop her arm through the crook of his elbow. Doesn’t gently remind her to let Wyman and Sarella do the jobs he’s paying them to do. Instead, he stares and waits for understanding to settle in her eyes, the deep blue pools she’d passed down to him. 

Her voice is tight, but courteous when she finally speaks. “I’ve had a long day. It’d be best if I lie down.” 

“I’ll make sure we’re all on time for dinner.” Robb emphasizes “all” to include Jon.

With a silent nod, his mother turns toward the house. 

“Robb!” Sarella Sand’s clear tone and light drawl call to him across the yard, melting the tension in his shoulders and relaxing the muscles in his face.

The change in his demeanor does not go unnoticed. 

“We’re ready when you are.”

Eying his mother one last time, Robb turns his attention toward the gorgeous deputy campaign manager wearing his name across her chest. _She’s going to ride me in that shirt later,_ he decides. 

“Be right there.” 

When he asked Sarella to meet him in the Winterfell library, watching her read was not what he had in mind.

After a long afternoon of filming, which culminated in a game of one-on-one with Jon on the estate’s basketball court, he politely asked her to wait in the library while he showered. 

If _“Meet me in the library in 30 min. You’re not leaving my house until I’ve watched you come”_ can be considered polite. 

He expected to find her half-naked, perched on a table with her legs crossed, and that heavy-lidded “come here” look twinkling in her ebony eyes. Instead, she’s barefoot and curled up on a couch, with her nose buried in _The Hour of the Wolf: Westeros’s First Prime Minister in His Own Words._

“Don’t tell me I’m competing with my ancestor for your affections tonight,” he teases. 

“Shouldn’t let a history nerd loose in a room full of rare books,” she answers without looking up. 

For a moment, he doesn't know what to do. He walked in ready to take her against the first wall he found, but seeing her like this stirs something else in him: curiosity.

He sits beside her on the couch and coaxes her feet into his lap. _Gods, she's soft everywhere,_ he thinks, running his hands over the smooth soles and tracing the delicate snake tattoo that adorns the inside of her left ankle. He discovered the tiny homage to her bond with her sisters the first time they had sex in a bed. Another sexy disruption to her otherwise prim image. "Have you always been a history nerd?"

She lays the book across her lap to meet his gaze. "I've always been curious. I fell in love with history in my father's library at Sunspear reading about Princess Nymeria. Sometimes I'd get so lost in the books, I'd spend the night in there." 

He can see her, young and skinny as a rod. Head full of dark spirals, nodding off with a book on her lap. The image makes him smile, though he detects something sad in her tone. 

Robb met Oberyn Martell once during training drills with Dornish troops at the Military Academy. He was one of the best hand-to-hand combat experts Robb ever saw and even more infamous for his off-the-field sparring. It's hard to imagine that man raising eight daughters. “Are you and your father close?” 

She snorts. “That’s… complicated. I _will_ say that he’s an active father. Most men in his position wouldn’t have been so enthusiastic about raising a brood of girls, but he loves it. He likes to say ‘My little vipers have fangs. They don’t need cocks.’” 

Considering that he’s felt like she injected him with some addictive venom since that night in the pub, Robb’s inclined to agree. 

“But it wasn’t all cuddles. He saw the best parts of himself in us and never let us settle. We could be anything we wanted to be, except average or indecisive.” 

Robb smiles, kneading the arches of her feet. Her quiet sigh stirs the dormant knot in his sweats. “As your client, I owe him my gratitude.” 

Sarella quirks up a brow. “If he saw what I’m charging you, he’d say you owe me more money.” 

“So you get your ambition from your father--” 

“Not quite," she says, shaking her head. "My father's bold and hit the privilege lottery, but I wouldn't call him ambitious. He's more… ravenous. But I did get his scholastic aptitude. He has as many Citadel links as he has babies’ mothers.” She holds up the book in her lap. “And I got his love of rare books.” 

He does quick math. That would be five Citadel links. He wonders if that’s why she has six. “And your mother? What’s she like?” Robb knows she’s a high-powered judge in the Summer Isles, but doesn’t know much else. 

“She's the ambitious one. Exacting. Disciplined. Polished. Can stop a room by raising her eyebrow."

“Sounds familiar.” 

The corner of her mouth twists into a wry smile. "Thanks."

“So you’re the product of _two_ overachievers and were raised in a training camp for badass girls. We’re never finishing a campaign speech before 2:00 AM, are we?” 

Turning her attention back to reading, she smirks. “You seemed to enjoy our last late-night writing session.” 

Speaking of which, it’s time he pried her away from that book, but looking at it gives Robb an idea. "Let me show you a piece of Cregan Stark history that you won't find in there."

He pulls her off the couch and leads her to a spiral staircase in the back of the library where they descend two floors and enter what was once a sitting room with austere antique chairs surrounding a stone fireplace. Hanging over the hearth in a glass case is a two-handed Valyrian steel sword. “That,” Robb says, standing behind Sarella and wrapping his arms around her waist, “is my family’s ancestral sword, _Ice._ ” 

“Wow,” she breathes. “I heard some families still had Valyrian steel swords but I thought those were rumors. How old is it?” 

Robb shrugs. “No one knows for sure. Six-seven hundred years, maybe?” 

“And it’s still in pristine condition?” 

“We take good care of it. My father used to come down here and sharpen it when he needed to think,” he pauses. “Sometimes, I do, too.” Leaning into her neck, he’s distracted by her signature perfume. It's warm and flowery and reminds him of a garden on a spring day instead of a cold, dark basement in the North. 

She tilts her head, encouraging his nose’s exploration of her neck. “What were you going to tell me about Cregan Stark?” 

“His second wife, Alysanne Blackwood, was the love of his life. She was ahead of her time. Clever, understood politics,” he picks at a lock of Sarella’s silky black tresses. “Had hair as dark as a raven. Most importantly, she didn’t take any shit. Least of all from Cregan. When he asked for her hand, she told him she’d accept on one condition: that he treat her like his equal, not a subject.

“Family legend says that on their wedding night, he laid _Ice_ at her feet and swore that she was as much his master as he was hers. And if he ever treated her otherwise, she could say the word and he would raise his sword against himself in her name.” 

"I wouldn't have pegged Cregan for such a romantic.” 

“They say that part of him died when she did. He got on with his third wife but everyone knew his heart belonged to Black Aly."

He didn’t bring her down here to draw parallels between her and Black Aly. The comparison tumbled out of his mouth on its own. But it’s there, tugging at him just as watching Sarella direct the photographers and videographers around the estate tugged at him. Like this could be… 

More.

“Is that history rare enough for you?” he whispers into the slope of her neck. 

“Robb Stark. Are you trying to seduce me with historical artifacts?” 

He runs his hands over her denim-clad hips and pulls her body tighter against his, skirting a hand up the warm apex of her thighs. “Is it working?” 

Slowly, painfully, she grinds her backside against his thickening erection. “Bend me over one of these chairs and find out.” 

Fuck. Could she be any more perfect?

He takes his time unzipping her jeans. She sighs when his two fingers slide into her and her slippery walls, ever obedient to him, lock around his touch. “No,” he nips at her neck. “You made me wait, so you're doing all the work tonight. I’m going to sit in this chair and watch you fuck me with this tight…” he pushes his fingers deeper and lets his thumb graze her clit. 

“Wet...” He pulls her earlobe into his mouth. 

“Pussy.”

The flood around his fingers tells him she likes dirty talk. _Good to know_.

“Keep the shirt on. You look good wearing my name.” 

“Someone’s possessive...” 

“Someone likes it.” When she doesn’t respond, Robb whispers in her ear. “You don’t have to say it; I can feel it. Now turn around, take off my pants, and straddle me in this chair.” He smiles to himself when he adds: “I don’t intend to ask twice.”

* * *

_"Tonight, we're at the Wintertown Civic Auditorium for the third and final debate between People's Council candidates Domeric Bolton and Robb Stark. Bolton got up to an early lead on the campaign trail but after locking down key endorsements from the Northern Shipworkers Union and the Federation of Northern Firefighters, Robb Stark has closed a six-point point gap in the polls and now leads Bolton by two points. Stark has also proven dominant on the debate stage, leaving many to wonder if a strong performance tonight will cement him as the favorite. Stay tuned for our post-debate coverage at 9:00 PM. For now, this is Wylla Manderly with WNTH news."_

Sarella’s so frustrated, she can’t remember how to tie a tie. The strip of winter gray silk slides through her useless fingers while she chides her candidate. “He can't defend his voting record, so he'll come after you on family values.” 

Robb faces straight ahead, refusing to look down. Probably to avoid looking too intimate. Or maybe to avoid seeing the frustration in her voice mirrored in her eyes. “As you’ve reminded me five times tonight.” 

“Because your singleness is a liability and we don't have a plan to attack it."

They meticulously prepared for the last two debates, bringing in Brynden Tully, Robb's great uncle and a notoriously ruthless trial attorney, to act as Domerick in their practice sessions. It paid off with two knockout performances where Robb successfully painted the Bolton family as mouthpieces for Southern business interests and Robb as the champion for the North. 

But Bolton’s tired of losing and looking to land a haymaker. They need to curb-stomp him tonight, not arrogantly cruise to victory. 

“Sarella,” Robb says, finally locking his gorgeous blue eyes on hers. “Trust me. I’ve got it.” 

_Nice try, Stark._ “I don’t give a shit about your sexy eyes,” she hisses. “‘I’ve got it’ is not a plan.”

“You’re choking me. That’s fine when we’re alone, but I can’t go out there with a boner.”

“You’re awfully laid back right now,” she warns. 

Adjusting the sleeves on his navy suit, Robb smirks. “This suit feels lucky. And like I said: I’ve got it,” he steps back. “Now let me tie my tie before you send me out with a tent in my pants.” 

Sarella shakes her head but ultimately lets him go. A tense conversation in public is no good for the campaign, so she settles backstage next to the water cooler while Robb gets mic’d up for the main event. 

She senses movement in her peripheral vision and it's Wyman; pulling up a chair, with an unlit cigar hanging from his plump lips. Despite her “deputy” title, he’s given her free reign over the campaign since bringing her on, spending more time in his White Harbor office and brokering deals with the North’s power players. “Surprised you’re here,” she says. 

He coughs a little before speaking with his thick, gruff voice. “I couldn’t miss watching our boy sew this thing up tonight.” 

“He doesn’t have a plan for Domeric’s ‘carefree bachelor’ attack.” 

Wyman shrugs. “He can talk around it for now. For the next phase… different story. But you should be done with him by then.”

Her jaw doesn’t have to drop. She doesn’t have to say another word before her old boss anticipates her reaction.

“Before you give me your ‘shocked’ face, keep in mind we’re in public.” 

“How long have you known?” she asks. 

“He looks like that,” Wyman turns to her. “You look like… you. It was inevitable. Seems like it’s doing him good. I thought I signed up for Ned Jr., but you’ve got the Young Wolf using his teeth. That incident in the woods with Umber was brilliant.” 

Taking a deep breath, Sarella struggles to keep her gaze steady. “It sounds like you're insinuating that I’m using my vagina to influence the candidate."

“I know you wouldn't leverage sex to sway a candidate. I'm saying additional influence is a happy byproduct of the fun you two are having. He needed the motivation to get his Mommy out of his ear. He’ll win this race so it's time to look ahead. Voters don’t mind single councilmen. High Councilmen, Governors, and Prime Ministers need wives. Can I count on you to put together a list of prospects or are you too personally involved?” 

“Wyman…” 

He pulls the cigar from his teeth and twirls it between his fingers. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your marbles for cock, Sarella. Game that out for five seconds. You and he don’t work in the public eye.” 

She doesn’t want to admit that she’s thought about it. During those quiet mornings waking up next to him in her hotel room. The late nights working and warring over details at campaign headquarters. Moreso since the evening in the Winterfell library when he compared her to Black Aly Blackwood. _Hair as dark as a raven. The love of Cregan's life._

Wyman’s right. They don’t work. 

The media would make the narrative about Robb Stark, Son of the North dating Sarella Sand, royal Dornish bastard. Defying his region's unwelcoming attitude to “outsiders” in the name of true love. They’d dive into her background. Her parents’ story. Her sisters. Her familial connection to the Targaryens. 

She’d be relegated to a polished, complimentary trophy instead of a power broker. He’d be known as the “handsome councilman with the pretty brown wife,” not one of the most promising emerging politicians in the nation. The fairy tale of "love against the odds" would swallow their individual careers whole.

But the way he looks at her. 

The way she brings him to his knees with a word.

The way her body responds to every subtle act of ownership he introduces to their bedplay. 

_You look good wearing my name._

_Who’s inside you right now, Sarella? Who’s making you come? Who fucks you like this?_

Don’t tell me you’ve lost your marbles for cock.

“I’ll have that list to you in 48 hours,” she says to Wyman. 

Bolton’s haymaker comes in the fourth quarter of the debate. The audience member planted by his campaign stands up and asks “Question for Major Stark. Northerners want candidates that are stable and reliable. What do you say to voters who see your lack of wife and family and think you haven’t displayed the maturity or commitment needed for the job?” 

Sarella’s standing behind the audience, as she always does during his public speaking engagements. She likes to gauge crowd reactions and watch him from their perspective. 

_Let’s see if he’s really ‘got this.’_

His answer starts with his grin. That easy, boyish turn of his mouth that made her melt over ciders their first night out and disarms her whenever they’re alone. 

“Well, I’d say that if I wanted an easy solution to earning those voters’ trust, I’d do what most politicians do: consult my team and find the woman who looks best on paper. She’d probably have a ‘pedigreed’ background. Be active in a couple of key causes. Look good standing next to me in photos…” he scans the crowd with another one of those panty-dissolving smiles and they eat it up.

“But Northerners should know that I’m not afraid of difficult tasks. Of tough, deliberate decisions. On the floor of the Capitol or in my personal life, I’ll never settle for the easy choice over the right choice just because the right choice takes a little longer.” 

Beyond the crowd, beyond the beaming stage lights, Robb’s eyes find hers. 

“Between the olds gods and the new, I have faith there’s a right choice, a true partner and equal out there for me. Until she comes along, I’m married to the North.” He scans the room one more time with twinkling blue eyes and leans into the microphone. “Just promise when she does, you guys won’t mind sharing.”

It’s a perfect answer. 

Of course, this ambitious, charming, military prodigy adonis who fucks like a god and looks at her like she’s a queen gives _that_ answer. The answer that will simultaneously win over a crowd of rowdy, skeptical Northerners and make her heart beat out of its chest.

_Of. Fucking. Course._

Too bad she has to make a liar out of him. 

"Ms. Sand, may I have a moment."

When Nymeria called with the dirt she found on the Tully family, Sarella prayed to the Smith that she'd never use it. She isn't much for religion, but when she engages the Seven, the Smith, with his diligence and focus on learning, craft, and good works, is her go-to. She doesn't mind getting her hands dirty, she thrives on it. But throwing dirt on the mother of a man she takes to bed is a new line, even for her.

If only Catelyn Stark wasn't so determined to be her enemy.

Her measured voice holds no malice to the untrained ear. But Sarella's spent enough time with women who use courtesy as armor to know she and Robb's mother are on the brink of an overdue showdown. When Sarella follows Catelyn into an unlocked office at the auditorium, it's not the Smith she silently prays to. It's the Warrior.

Sarella takes a seat on the lone desk in the room, folds her arms, and looks expectantly at Catelyn. The older woman will either have to sit and look up at her or stand before her like a subject beseeching a monarch. She holds in a smirk when Cat chooses to stand, folding delicate, veined hands in front of her Tully blue skirt suit.

"I won't waste time, Ms. Sand. I'd like to make you an offer."

"And what kind of offer would that be?"

"I'd like to double what my son is paying you for your services if you leave his campaign tonight. I've reached out to my contacts in the Riverlands and Titus Blackwood is looking for an advisor on his re-election campaign for High Council. A jet can take you to Raventree first thing in the morning. He's all but ready to hire you. All you have to do is show up."

Sarella blinks slowly. "Might I ask, Mrs. Stark, if I'm as qualified as you seem to think I am, why you want me off Robb's campaign?"

Catelyn's blue eyes narrow, emphasizing the overall pinched effect of her face. "I don't think I need to tell you that your relationship with my son is highly inappropriate. But more than that, he will need to secure a proper wife for the next phase of his career and doesn't need a dalliance with a woman like you spoiling his reputation."

_And now it begins._

"You'll have to excuse me. I have done nothing but eat, breathe, and sleep your son’s campaign and as a result, he’s gone from six points down to flaying the skin off of Domeric Bolton and dragging it across the debate stage. I am brilliant, Citadel-educated, and made Westeros’s 30 Professionals to Watch Under 30 for four consecutive years, and all that is without mentioning that I’m the daughter of a Summer Isles Supreme Court judge and a literal prince, so you need to explain what you mean by ‘a woman like me.’” 

"I don't know what you young people have against polite conversations, but since you insist, I'll say it plainly,” Catelyn wrings her hands and sighs. “You're the foreign-born daughter of a notorious whoremongering rogue. However distinguished your heritage may be in Dorne and the Summer Isles, you'll find little appreciation for your homelands' _unique_ social norms among Westerosi voters. But my son’s judgment is too clouded by whatever you’re _doing_ to him to face simple facts. Do the polite thing, Ms. Sand. Take the money, the new job, and go."

Sarella stares at Catelyn. The pencil-thin arcs of her brows. The gray roots peeking out of her auburn coif. She still wears faint traces of her youthful beauty, but they’re marred by an air of condescension and moral superiority. 

Usually, Sarella bewilders opponents by shredding them at a dizzying, rapid-fire pace. This, she wants to relish. So she speaks slowly.

"Here’s your problem, Catelyn," she starts, dropping all pretense of deference. "You're jealous. Of women like me. Women like Barbrey. Even your own sister-in-law. You settled for being a good girl because you were too craven to step outside of the mold and be great. And the only way you sleep at night is by convincing yourself your way was the _noble_ way. The _appropriate_ way. Otherwise, your whole life is built on a lie."

Sarella's heels click like a ticking clock as she slowly approaches Catelyn. "Well. Let me relieve you of that burden right now. It is a lie. All of it. Your father, our honorable Foreign Affairs Minister, arranged for your sister Lysa to have an abortion at 16 after she had a little, shall we say, accident with Petyr Baelish. I also know that she loves when her husband is away because she and Petyr like to walk down memory lane. So much, in fact, that one might find it odd how little her son Robin Arryn resembles his father or his mother. Now, genetics can be complicated, but tell me, Catelyn, how often do children come out bearing a striking resemblance to their mothers' high school flings?"

The shock on Catelyn's face tastes delicious. Better than a vintage Summer Isles White. Better than Sarella’s favorite Dornish nutmeg coffee. Maybe even better than Robb's kisses. A ravenous thirst for more presses her forward.

"Of course, what makes Old Hoster's extreme reaction to Lysa's slip up particularly rich--and you'll really like this, Cat--is his fifteen-year affair with Chataya Zo. That name may not ring a bell for a proper lady such as yourself, but Chataya is the proprietor of the Capitol's premier escort service. She and your father had quite a love story. After a couple of regular appointments, they developed a real fondness for each other and she starts seeing him off the books. He sent her the high brow clientele she needed to boost her business and in return, she used her employees to seduce information out of Hoster’s political enemies.” 

"Lies!" Catelyn spits, pointing at Sarella with a quaking finger. "These are lies! Leave it to a slithering little whore like you to--"

"Ah, yes. There's that word. Tell me again how _my_ father is a whoremonger." Sarella pulls out her phone and scrolls through the photos Nymeria sent. "When, if you look hard enough at these pictures of Chataya, she's always wearing this adorable little fish pendant on her necklace. Reminds me of something your late mother might have worn. Maybe in her wedding photos?"

She slides through a few more pictures and pauses for dramatic effect when she finds the coup de gras. "While we’re here, let me introduce you to G. Zharro Zo. He's allegedly from Ebonhead, not far from where my grandparents live, actually. I can't say that I've met many auburn-haired Summer Islanders, but with his smile and those shoulders, I’m sure he’s a heartbreaker. He’s 40. The youngest partner at his law firm. Oh, and if you're curious, that 'G' in his name stands for 'Grover'."

She stands shoulder to shoulder with Catelyn. Folding her hands in front of her, Sarella leans in to deliver her parting blow. “You were right about one thing: Tully blood runs true _._ At least you know Robb got it honest.”

Catelyn opens her mouth to retort, but the door swings open and Robb enters the office, cold fury frosting his eyes. 

“Robb,” his mother gasps. “What’s wrong? Ms. Sand, can you give me and my son a moment--” 

“She stays.” His voice is firm and as cold as his gaze as the door softly clicks shut behind him. “She needs to hear this as much as you do.” 

“What happened?” Sarella asks.

“Tomorrow at noon,” Robb says through clenched teeth, “Rickard Karstark will withdraw his endorsement of my campaign and publicly support Domerick Bolton.” 

“He can’t do that!” Catelyn demands. 

“He can, Mother, and he will. Because your son got caught in Rickard’s granddaughter’s bedroom with his pants down and HIS SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD PRICK IN HER MOUTH.”

The split-second change in his demeanor rocks them both, sending Sarella back a step and Catelyn’s hand to the base of her throat.

“Robb,” she says. “This is a family issue. It doesn't need--”

“Rickon behaving like he’s been raised by wolves _was_ a family problem that we could’ve avoided if you spent half as much time mothering him as you spend fussing over me and my campaign. Now, it’s a campaign problem.”

“But, Robb, I can just--” 

“YOU CAN GO HOME! YOU WANT TO HELP ME? YOU WANT TO DISPLAY STARK FAMILY VALUES? GO HOME AND RAISE YOUR BLOODY SON."

If Sarella humbled Catelyn, Robb breaks her. She's stunned silent, blinking back tears as he closes his eyes and tries to take cleansing breaths.

His next words rumble like quiet thunder in the distance. "You're off the campaign trail. No more speeches on my behalf. No more interviews. No more dropping by headquarters. Your place is with Rickon." His gaze softens slightly when he turns to Sarella. "Whatever you can find on Karstark, I want it in the press by 10:00 AM."

Leaking dirt to the media? That's not like him."You don't want to negotiate with him first?"

"There's no time. We can't lose tonight's momentum. Take Karstark's head off; make him useless to Bolton. Whatever it takes."

Catelyn steps forward. "Are you sure that's wise? Your father wouldn't--"

"Jory's outside waiting to take you to Winterfell, Mother."

Sarella’s frozen in place watching Catelyn leave, taking most of the tense air in the room with her. When she exits, Robb sinks back on the desk where she sat a few moments prior. With his arms folded, his shoulders bulge in his suit jacket as he rubs two fingers across the lines in his forehead. He stormed into the room in tyrannical “King Robb” mode. Now, his head hangs as if his crown is too heavy. “That was out of line, wasn’t it?” 

It takes strenuous mental effort but she sets aside her animosity for Catelyn the woman and tries to think of her as Robb’s mother. “The yelling, maybe. Your decision? No.” Cautiously, she walks toward him until they’re face to face. “I didn’t get a chance to say ‘good job.’ You were incredible tonight.” 

He snorts. “Thanks to a couple of horny teenagers, it might not matter.” 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Sarella says. “If your performance tonight polls the way I think it will, you might not need Karstark. He won’t embarrass his granddaughter by revealing the real reason he’s changing allegiances. But enough about the campaign for a minute. What do _you_ need?” 

Robb reaches for her hand and interlaces their fingers. She’s used to his touch, urgent and hungry or seductively slow. This is different. Tender. He pulls their joined hands to his face, rubs his stubbled cheek against her palm, and plants a soft kiss inside her wrist. “For now, this.” 

Without hesitation, she gives it to him. This quiet moment of intimacy, a calm in the brewing storm. Campaign flings typically end with a pat on the ass and a "Thanks; that was fun" after an election, but the look in Robb's eyes has "life-exploding career suicide" written all over it.

Yet.

Watching him relax under her touch is even headier than watching him climax. Wyman warned her not to lose her marbles for cock, but it dawns on her that it’s too late. 

She’s losing her marbles for something else entirely.


	4. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shouts to JoJo's "Comeback" for inspiring the later scenes in this chapter.

**_***THREE YEARS PRIOR***_ **

Normally, Robb wouldn’t complain about Sarella’s political mind. Every time she blows through his campaign office like an efficient, ball-busting cyclone in Stuart Weitzmans (a fact he gleaned after months of seeing her discarded pumps on the office floor after hours) he sits up in anticipation. 

That mind going to work while she’s literally blowing him? Inconvenient.

He’s got a handful of sweat-dampened black hair in his hand, watching her. One of her neatly manicured hands strokes him at the base, while her tongue twists teasingly around the tip like she always does right before engulfing him in her heavenly mouth. He knows what comes next: she’ll plant those onyx eyes on his and suck him in, moaning like she’s taking the first bite of her favorite meal.

That is not what happens. 

Instead, those eyes pop wide open and she shoots up like a rocket, exposing his wet erection to the hotel room’s chilly air way too fast for his liking. He can’t even get “Shit” out of his mouth before she shouts: 

“ALYS KARSTARK!”

 _What the fuck?_

With his mind still scrambling to make sense of his wet, abandoned cock, she paces barefoot and naked across her hotel room mumbling to herself. 

“Wha—”

“She’s a noted feminist. Sex ed. advocate. Has a _huge_ platform. She wouldn’t have an issue with her niece participating in a perfectly consensual blow job…”

After they left the Civic Auditorium, Sarella spent hours on the phone with a contact in Old Town she repeatedly called “Sam.” Robb wondered what kind of “contact” answered her calls at midnight and immediately jumped on whatever she requested, but he kept that to himself. What mattered was “Sam” having access to every electronic record containing the name “Karstark” over the last thirty years. 

When “Sam” came up empty-handed, they accepted that Robb would have to beat Domerick the old-fashioned way: being a superior candidate. 

They ended up in bed when Sarella’s “I believe you can do this” encouragement turned… demonstrative. It was a pity blow, to be sure. But he hadn’t recovered from feeling on top of the world at the end of his debate and crashing after losing his temper with his mother. And the only thing that could fix him was losing himself as deep down Sarella’s throat as she could take him, her motivations be damned.

He would’ve been ashamed of the crass desire when they first met, but he’s learning that she likes him crass. Loves it, if her reaction to him talking her through several orgasms in the Winterfell Library was any indication.

“We can step on her father’s statement if we get her to announce she’s endorsing you first,” she continues. “Rickard can peel off a small percentage of votes, but Alys will dominate the news cycle. Is Jeyne up this late? We need to schedule a breakfast meeting with Alys first thing in the morn—”

“Sarella,” he manages once he tears his gaze from all her buttery flesh on display.

She’s sliding her thumb across her phone screen to unlock it. “Huh?” 

“It’s two in the bloody morning. We’ll call Jeyne at a respectable hour. Like five.” He flashes what he hopes is his most convincing smile. “Now, please. Get your brilliant ass back in bed before my cock falls off.” 

But she’s already pulled on his rumpled undershirt, a hint of her bare ass cheeks peeking out of the bottom as she rummages around for her laptop. 

She's fucking gorgeous; half-naked, sleek hair coiling at the roots, lips still swollen from the attention she paid him just moments before, with her eyes sharply focused on her eureka moment and fingers flying across the keyboard as if he’s not even in the room anymore. He wants to toss the laptop, throw her back on the bed, and show just how much he appreciates her cleverness. He wants to watch whatever political magic trick she's about to perform. He wants to punch a hole in the wall because he's still naked and uncomfortably hard. 

With a groan, he rolls out of bed. "Taking a cold shower. Unless you want me to jump you, be dressed when I get out. Flannel, if you have it.” 

He’s back on his game at headquarters that morning, wolf coffee mug in his hand, eyes glued to the two large screens in his conference room: one tracking social media’s response to Alys Karstark’s endorsement, the other on WNTH waiting for the story to break traditional news. 

Sarella’s 3:00 AM deep-dive into Alys’s Instagram account revealed that she started her days writing at a cafe 10 minutes away from Karhold at 6:30 AM and they ambushed her with their proposal. 

They found her seated in the back of the cafe, her coltish frame hidden beneath an oversized _Magnars Hockey Club_ sweatshirt and long, brown hair weaved into a single braid that cascaded over her shoulder. 

She had a good laugh at her father’s reaction to Rickon and Lysara. “Gods forbid my niece makes an informed decision to explore her sexuality. Though I wish she’d picked the smart brother instead of the wild one.” 

“Says the woman who married a hockey player." Robb couldn’t help himself, but Alys had a point. Bran was a little old for Lysara, but he would’ve at least taken the girl back to his dorm room to spare her the indignity of being caught by her parents. 

“I’ll tell Sigorn you said ‘Hello,’” Alys said of her husband. Then, her blue-green eyes turned fierce. “And I’ll have that wolf pup’s balls if I find out he’s been a prick to my niece.” 

Robb thought she should have Rickon’s balls either way. So he signed him up to volunteer at Alys’s non-profit women’s health center. Losing hockey practice to hours of folding pamphlets with clinical descriptions of female anatomy and biological functions would do him good.

In exchange for an advisory position on his policy team if he wins, Alys wrote a stirring op-ed endorsing Robb’s candidacy and recorded an accompanying video that she posted on all of her platforms. 

“Any minute now…” Sarella whispers next to him, nursing her own cup of coffee with her eyes locked on the news. 

As always, she’s right. But it’s better than Robb imagined. Alys Karstark shows up on WNTH, interviewed by Wylla Manderly, announcing that she’ll break with her father to endorse Robb; not just stepping on Rickard and Domerick’s statement, but scooping it. 

At this moment, Robb realizes how much trouble he’s in. 

What he wants to do, what every instinct in him screams at him to do, is turn to Sarella, sweep her off the floor, and kiss her until neither of them can breathe. Like they’re in a fucking romance novel instead of his campaign office. 

Where she works for him. 

Surrounded by a staff that either doesn’t know or pretends not to know that they’re sleeping together.

They just swerved his campaign out of potential catastrophe and he’s seconds away from driving into another because he can’t keep his hands off his deputy campaign manager. 

_And you say Rickon’s out of control._

He gathers himself and turns to Sarella with a fist extended for a fist bump. “Saved the day again, Ms. Sand.”

She returns the fraternal gesture, a warm smile lighting her dark eyes. Not one of the heated, chemical stares they normally exchange but a different type of affection. Like they’re soldiers who just survived a rough trench together.

Like teammates.

Like... partners. 

* * *

In Jeyne Poole’s twenty-seven years, she’s seen her share of attractive men. Her father worked for the Starks, after all, so she grew up watching Robb Stark and Jon Snow sprout into twin towers of swoon-worthy handsomeness. By the time they were adults, she was just about impervious to male beauty. If she could survive near-daily interactions with a bearded hunk built like an underwear model and a rakish cop who looks like a brooding rock star, Jeyne figured she could handle anything. 

That is, until an older gentleman she can only describe as “tall, dark, and handsome” slinks into Robb Stark’s campaign office. 

It’s not his looks that unnerve her, though, they’re note-worthy. He’s tall with slender shoulders that trail down to a fit frame. A runner’s body, if she had to guess. His olive-toned skin and swarthy features stand out in the office full of fair-skinned Northerners and a pair of curious obsidian eyes sweep the room, assessing his surroundings before landing on her face.

His gait is leisurely but certain. As if he’s mastered a level of control over his anatomy inaccessible to mere mortals. His lean body pours into his fitted black suit that looks straight off a Myrrish runway with a black shirt that’s unbuttoned to reveal a strong clavicle. When he speaks, Jeyne’s eyes fall on a bottom lip that just _begs_ to be licked. 

_He’s sex_ , she realizes, taking in the distinguished lines framing his eyes and the gray hair in his trimmed mustache. _Perfectly-aged, walking sex._

Talking sex, actually. She realizes too late that he’s addressing her. “I’m sorry, sir,” she stutters, blinking her brain into focus. “How can I help you?” 

“I’d like to speak with Sarella Sand,” he says in a thick Dornish accent that nearly melts the bones in Jeyne’s knees. 

_Wait a minute…_ She’s putting two and two together when the stranger solves the equation for her. “Tell her that her father’s here. And he’d like to take her to lunch.”

* * *

If Sarella's phone was in its usual place--glued to her palm--instead of on the conference table buried under early voting data, polling trends, napkins, and Wintertown Pub sandwich wrappers, she would have seen her sister Nymeria’s missed calls and single, urgent text: 

_“Father just dropped in on me in the Capitol. Might pay you a visit before heading to Braavos.”_

But there are forty-eight hours until Election Day and the office has descended into madness. Theon’s running around capturing Robb’s every waking moment for social media content. Robb’s trying not to strangle him while fielding phone interviews. Wyman’s in a corner barking at his son Wendell to get more accurate polling data. And all that is happening over the din of fifteen phone-banking volunteers led by none other than Arya, who’s lending her big brother a hand in the final stretch of the campaign. 

The last thing Sarella expects is a flushed Jeyne Poole peeking her head in the door to announce. “Um. Sarella? Prince--Your… father’s here to see you.” 

Sarella’s head nearly whips off her neck. “What?” But studying Jeyne’s expression, the pink cheeks, dazed eyes, and breathy speech, her stomach sinks. _That’s the Oberyn Martell Effect, alright._

_What the fuck is he doing here?_

Steeling herself, Sarella walks into the open office area where her father studies a wall collage of photos taken at various campaign stops and public speeches. 

Prince Oberyn Martell of the Sovereign Principality of Dorne, Founder, and CEO of Viper Security, Inc. moves like a man who was born with the world at his feet and lives not like a man eager to conquer it, but starving for a bit of everything it has to offer. And he’s sampled it all. He studied at the Citadel, earning five links before he grew bored. He’s led Dorne’s Special Forces, an elite military unit assigned to highly-classified missions. He’s left a trail of broken hearts and satisfied smiles across both sides of the Narrow Sea, including the four women with whom he fathered daughters before he met Ellaria Sand, a retired supermodel and the love of his life. Around the world, he’s a respected soldier, but a notorious rogue. In Dorne? He’s a god among men. A living, breathing archetype of the ideal Dornishman: handsome, brash, passionate, and deadly.

When people meet Sarella’s father, they mistake the compelling air he gives off as purely sexual. What they’re actually drawn to is power. It beams off his body like sun rays. To the world at large, it’s a heady mix of seductive, intimidating, and terrifying.

To his daughters, it’s aspirational. And exhausting. 

Sarella clears her throat. “Father.” 

Genuine joy lights his face when he sees her. For all of his alleged infamy, he still has a soft spot for his girls. “Sweetling,” he drawls, opening his arms for a hug. “It’s good to see you.” 

The top of her head tucks under his chin and he smells like her childhood, like the sandalwood and spice that lingered in his library even when he wasn't there. “You, too…” she replies, voice brimming with caution. “What are you doing here?” 

“Visiting your aunt on Dragonstone,” he says as if that’s a five-minute drive instead of hundreds of miles south. “Decided to surprise you and Nym on my way to Braavos.”

Behind them, she hears Robb, and the gravity of their pending introduction lands on her like a sack of bricks. 

“Prince Oberyn,” Robb says, his voice firm, but friendly. “What a pleasant surprise.” 

Her father’s eyes flicker briefly on hers before a congenial mask falls over his face. “Major Stark. Nice to meet you. I see my daughter’s doing excellent work for you.” 

“We’ve met before,” Robb says. “I attended one of your training sessions when I was a student at the Military Academy. And yes. Sarella’s been a breath of fresh air to the campaign. We don’t know what we’d do without her.” 

_Thank the gods he said “we” instead of “I.”_

Ignoring Robb’s reference to their previous meeting, Oberyn places a protective hand on her back. “I hoped you could do without her for a couple of hours.”

“Father, it’s two days before the election. I can’t just--” 

“Don’t worry about us here,” Robb interrupts, then gives her an easy smile. “I can manage not to burn the place down for a couple of hours.” 

At Robb’s speaking for her, her father’s grin tightens. “Sarella?” 

To the stranger’s ear, he’s asking. Sarella knows better. “Jeyne,” she says. “Can you please grab my purse, phone, and coat for me?” She refuses to leave the two men alone together. No telling what would happen. 

She follows Oberyn outside, where an unremarkable black sedan awaits. Its driver, in a black suit, aviator shades covering what she knows are sky blue eyes, and sandy brown hair disheveled by the harsh Northern wind, stands ready at the rear door. 

“Daemon,” she greets curtly, avoiding his eyes.

“Gorgeous,” he croons, his strong jaw twisting into a mischievous grin made more so by a pair of dimples. 

_Nope_. 

Sarella leans into the car without another word. Once she and her father are safely inside, she drops her politeness. “What are you doing here?” 

He feigns offense. “I can’t visit my daughter?” 

“You showed up at my job unannounced after a year. Forty-eight hours before an election. What is this about?” 

“We’ll discuss it over lunch.” He slides open a compartment filled with several small bottles. “Is it still Summer White for you? Or would you share a Dornish Red with your old man?” 

“Red is fine,” Sarella mumbles, staring out of the window. “We should stop somewhere in town. The further east you go, the fewer options.”

After he's passed her a glass, he opens a folder over his knees and retrieves a pair of reading glasses from his pocket. "I was reading your mother's latest ruling on my way over.” 

Her mother had been the last woman Oberyn dated before settling down (if you could call their open relationship “settled”) with Ellaria. While her mother barely acknowledged Oberyn’s existence, he maintained that Justice Jolona Qo was one of the most formidable women he’d ever met.

"She still has a way with words," Oberyn says with a smile. "I never knew anyone had so many different ways to say 'Go to hell.' Like you want to right now."

Nursing her wine glass, Sarella looks out of the window and sees that they're miles outside of town. "Where are we going?"

“Lunch” as it turns out, is on his jet. Which she realizes when they arrive at an airfield where a private plane marked _Viper, Inc_. is parked. “Father! I told you, I--” 

“You’ll escort me on my flight to Braavos,” he says, unbuttoning his suit jacket. “The plane will turn around and bring you back to your Young Wolf in no time.” 

_Ah. There it is._

It explains his subtle condescension when he met Robb earlier. He knows. In the alarming way that her father knows everything happening in his daughters' lives without spending time with them. 

She stands on the tarmac and folds her arms, careful to speak out of Daemon's earshot. "I'm not flying to Braavos for a lecture on who I'm sleeping with. I need to get back to work." She recognizes the flash of anger twitching on his face. "And before you think you’ll _make_ me, remember you raised women who don't back down."

Oberyn nods and taps the drivers' window. "I need a moment with my daughter," he says when Daemon rolls it down. "Make sure another car is here to take her back when we leave." Once Daemon pulls off, her father glares at her.

Two pairs of viper eyes lock in battle.

"What you do with your cunt, Sarella, is your business. What you do with your brain, with your life, with the opportunities that I've afforded you, is mine. Since you want to recall how I raised my daughters, let's start there. You can be anything but what?"

His use of "cunt" has his desired effect of throwing her off. Her father’s not one to mince words but even he has limits to what he says to his daughters. 

_Had_ limits, apparently. 

If she storms at him with “Don’t speak to me that way,” he’ll attack her for being coquettish. Begrudgingly, she tilts up her chin and meets his challenge head-on. “I can be anything but average or indecisive.” 

"So when I see that action figure that you put in a suit on television with hearts in his eyes, reciting fairy tale soliloquies about 'right choices,' I have to wonder what the hell you're doing up here. Because it _looks_ like you think there's a happily ever after where you get to be a princess and I did not _raise_ princesses. I raised _warriors._ "

 _That’s_ how he knew? The debate? Was it that obvious that Robb was talking to her through the crowd? "You don't think I know that, Father?'

"Oh, no." He steps forward. "I _know_ you know it. What I don't understand is why you're behaving as if you don't. Say this boy is Cregan Stark reborn. And he chooses you, the educated brown girl, to prove how _modern_ he is. For a little while, you'll be media darlings. They'll wax on and on about how clever you are. How you hold the record for Citadel links earned over three years. How you were the architect of his early success. And they'll say those things, Sarella as if you've accomplished them for the _unique privilege_ of being that boy’s shiny accessory instead of through an unflinching commitment to your own excellence.

"And when you get tired of people dissecting your wardrobe choices and how you wear your hair… when you _dare_ to have an opinion outside of some charity or bubblegum girl power bullshit, they will rip you apart and put you in your place. _Other. Outsider. Not one of us._ But you love him, so you'll tone down. Play humble. And even though Sarella the Powerhouse is what got his cock up in the first place, he will _let_ you be less than who you are because it makes his life _easier._

“Then you're what? A _Tyrell_? Pulling strings behind some pretty dolt. Having his kids, hosting his dinners, smiling at his side; patiently waiting until your cunt dries up to put your balls on the table. _It is. Not. Good. Enough._ You are not a flower. _You are the sun in the goddamned sky and you do not bow. Or bend. Or break. FOR. ANYONE.”_

His final sentence comes out in a roar that sends her back a step. 

She cannot cry. She’s a crumpled, devastated teenage girl on the inside, but she cannot cry. Anger is easier. He didn’t have to fly across the country to tell her this. She _knows_. She was going to give Wyman that list of potential wives for Robb anyway. She’s a woman grown; she didn’t _need_ her father to explain the realities of her profession. 

Her words are a lump in her throat so she tries to communicate by squaring her shoulders and holding her father’s gaze. 

When his eyes soften, she knows she’s failed. 

"You can fuck Robb Stark. You can even _love_ Robb Stark. What you won't do is waste your _life_ on Robb Stark. Not because your father won't allow it, Sarella…" He leans down, the widow’s peak that he passed down to her prominent as he places a hand on her shoulder. "Because that's not who you _are._ "

Sarella also isn’t a coward. 

After the Rickon/Lysara fuck-up, she and Robb agreed to cut back their after-hours time. And despite her father’s insistence that she’s distracted by her feelings, she’s drafted a post-election plan for his image, including the public courting of an appropriate partner. She planned to give it to Wyman after the election when she was back in Old Town preparing for her next job but Oberyn’s words weigh too heavily on her. 

It’s funny. Months ago, she told Robb that he couldn’t wait for his father’s voice to tell him what to do. He had to trust himself. The problem is Sarella’s voice and Oberyn’s voice say the same thing. 

“Sending you an email,” she types into her phone. “Need you to comb over it and get back to me tonight.” 

Thirty minutes later, after she showered and opened the bottle of scotch in her hotel minibar, her phone rings. 

“What the fuck is this?” 

_Great. Two raging men in one day._ Sarella sips her scotch. “It’s a post-election pla--” 

“I know what it _says_. I’m asking why my deputy campaign manager drafted this document that directly contradicts my public statement.” 

“Your statement was a good tactic that got you out of a bad situation. But ‘waiting for the right one’ is not a strategy, Robb. If you want to get out of the lower legislature, you need a wife.” 

“A wife, fine. Date and marry some woman I barely know? I won’t make a mummer’s farce of my _life_.” 

“You’re a politician. You _signed up_ to make your life a mummer’s farce. This is how you win.” 

There’s a pause on the other line. Ice clinks in a glass. So they’re both tipsy having this conversation. _Even better._

“And if I’ve already found someone?” 

With a sigh, she paces toward the window in her hotel room. “You wouldn’t be the first man in power to have an understanding outside of his marriage.” 

“The woman I have in mind doesn’t deserve _an understanding_. She…” He clears his throat. “She deserves my sword at her feet. She deserves... everything.” 

Her head is pressed against the cool glass, moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes as Northerners file in and out of the Wintertown Pub below. “What if _her_ version of ‘everything’ involves more than being a stereotypical politician’s wife?” 

To her surprise, he lets out a wry chuckle. “I already have one of those. You’ve met my mother, right?” 

She smiles but remains silent. 

“Sarella,” he sighs, “I want—”

“Don't. The document lays out what needs to happen.” 

“Is this what you _want_?” 

“I _want_ to be the highest-paid fixer on the continent. And one day, I want to check ‘Robb Stark’ on a ballot for Prime Minister.” She hopes he hears the finality in her voice because her chest caves in and she can’t argue much longer. 

After a long pause, he relents. “Okay.”

She holds back her sobs just long enough to press “end call.” 

Against the window pane, with last call emptying out the bars below, she breaks.

* * *

**_***PRESENT DAY***_ **

Sarella assumed Robb still had too much of his father in him to continue seeing her once he knew that he’d eventually marry someone else, but she was wrong. 

At his Election Night party, surrounded by a crowd chanting “The Champ of the North” after he beat Domerick Bolton in a landslide, he pulled her into a hallway and told her he’d consider her plan, but on his own timetable. “Tonight,” he said, “I need you. In my house. In my bed. Screaming my name.” 

So she let him have her.

Again, months later, after the gala for newly-elected officials at the Capitol in a Riverlands hotel room. 

When Jon’s girlfriend Ygritte was tragically murdered and Sarella traveled North for the funeral. 

And a few times after Robb and Roslin Frey started dating but weren’t exclusive. 

Once the pair popped up on Varya Snyder’s _The Daily Whisper_ as one of Westeros’s Hottest New Couples, Robb and Sarella let time and space end their physical relationship while still keeping tabs on each other. When she opened Sphinx Consultants, a bouquet of wild lotuses and a bottle of Bear Island Reserve Scotch showed up at her office. And when his first major bill passed, she sent him a Montblanc fountain pen engraved with “The Champ of the North.” 

She didn’t think his engagement would trigger the same ache she felt the night he told her she “deserved everything,” but it had. She told herself calling him tonight was about having a shitty day and needing the kind of relief that only Robb could deliver, but it wasn’t. 

It was about marking him. 

_Mine._

And he’d picked up on it. 

"Tell me who I want, Sarella."

Instead of a punishing, blistering kiss to make her so dizzy, she can't think of anything but answering the need between her legs, he surprises her by cupping her cheek, pulling her chin down with his thumb, and nipping at her bottom lip. 

"Look at me." His blue eyes stay open and burn into hers. His hips tilt down to give her another inch that sends her back arching and makes her gasp. "And tell me."

She doesn't look away. Not even when he gently licks into her mouth to tease out her tongue. 

"I thought you weren't allowed to be average or indecisive," he whispers.

_Touché._

She snakes a hand up his still-clothed back and laces her fingers in his hair. " _Me_ ," she purrs. "You want _me_."

Robb's first full stroke elicits an unrecognizable sound from her mouth. For his part, he groans and sinks his teeth into her shoulder, immediately soothing the spot with his warm tongue. 

"So fucking good," he grunts into her neck. 

She expects him to lose control and send her into the headboard, but he goes slow and hard. Fucking her, but lavishing in the feel of her greedily clinging to him on every downstroke before storming in with sharp, claiming thrusts. 

The word doesn't leave his mouth. His cock says it every time he bottoms out.

_Mine._

Her legs locked around his waist, her hips pushing up to meet him, answer.

_Yours._

With every pump. Every kiss. Every touch. Every groan. Every whimper. Every squeeze. Their bodies carry on the unspoken exchange until he pins her arms above their heads and she can't do anything but absorb every starving roll of his hips. 

Harder.

Faster.

Knocking the headboard against the wall.

His free hand comes down to the nape of her neck and fingers dig into her scalp, angling her neck up as his lips find her ear. "You feel that? How hard I am. How I hit…" He slams in to the hilt and she screams. "...that spot? This is yours. It should be _all yours_."

In and out. Harder and faster. Her moans are pitchy and loud as the tingle starts in the pit of her stomach.

"Show me how much you missed it."

Her body grants the request, erupting in an inferno fueled by longing, frustration, and possession that rushes through her from head to toe. 

With her hands locked above her head, she reaches for him the only way she can, biting down so hard on his bottom lip that she draws blood. The heady mix of pleasure and pain light Robb on fire and he spends himself inside of her with trembling muscles and panting breaths.

Sarella blinks up at the ceiling, waiting for her heart rate to slow down as he collapses next to her, licking the blood off his lip. “Viper fangs, indeed.” 

She bites back a smile and rolls her eyes. 

An hour and a half later, after a shower and a third round on the bathroom counter, she’s lying in bed admiring the view of him shirtless with a towel draped over his hips when his tone turns serious. “I brought you something. Close your eyes. Better yet…” 

“A blindfold?” she asks as he wraps his discarded tie around her eyes. “This should be good.”

She hears him rustling around for a few seconds, then feels his weight depress the bed. He takes hold of her left ankle, the one adorned by her snake tattoo, and gently places it in his lap before fastening what feels like an anklet around it. 

With his permission, she removes the tie and studies the simple, lightweight piece of jewelry. The links in the chain are small and delicate. The metal catches too much light from the nightstand lamp to be silver, though it’s not heavy enough to be platinum. “It’s beautiful. But what is it?” 

Robb inhales sharply, as if he’s gearing up to say something difficult, and looks in her eyes. “Valyrian steel. From _Ice_.” He holds her gaze, waiting for her to remember. 

Her heart stops and tears prick at the corners of her eyes. 

He’s laying his sword at her feet. 

“Robb--” 

He raises a hand. “Three years ago, we made the easy choice, knowing bloody well that me and you… The _right_ choice.” Running his thumb across her ankle, he continues. “I won't be that prick who whines about a loveless betrothal. I made the decision--I’ll live with it. But I need you to know that every part of me that _matters_ … is yours.”

 _Seven hells_. 

Sarella’s been speechless two times in her life. When she was 14 and her cousin Arianne confessed, over a bottle of Dornish Red that they snuck out of Doran’s quarters, that she had a crush on Oberyn. And during her first semester at the Citadel when Leo Tyrell handed her ass to her in their public speech and debate class the morning after she let her friend Mollander talk her into too many Fearsomely Strong Ciders. 

This is the third. 

Robb thumbs tears off her cheek before tilting his head and giving her one of those damn grins. “Have I finally rendered _thee_ Sarella Sand speechless?” 

Her dry lips will barely part, so she licks them, eyes fixed on the glittering metal laced around her ankle. “You’re wrong. Letting this g--” She clears her throat. “Three years ago… That was the hardest choice I’ve ever made. That’s how I know it was the right one.” 

Her heart aches watching his shoulders deflate. “Maybe,” he says with a nod as he leans down and plants a chaste kiss on her foot. “So is this. Because it’s the truth. I’ll never ask you for anything. But I’ll come whenever you call.” 

It’s not the fairy tale ending, but it’s the best one they’ll have. 

“Lie down with me for a few before we go, Councilman?” 

“One condition.” He bends over, scoops her bra off of the floor, and shoots it through the air like a basketball so it lands in the trash. “Tell Jon to keep his grubby hands off your knickers.” 

“Get in bed, Your Grace,” she says with mock exasperation. “We’ve only got two hours until sunrise.” 

And he does. Wrapping his arms around her waist and clinging to her as if she won’t be there when he wakes up. 

Because she won’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW! 
> 
> WHAT A RIDE! 
> 
> I've said before that this was supposed to be a one-shot but these characters DEMANDED a fleshed-out story and letting them have their way was so much fun.
> 
> Apologies to everyone who wanted a happy ending, but this is "Scandal" Westeros, after all. Don't worry. We'll get more Sarella/Robb in future episodes. 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who has commented on and shared this story. My fics don't do big numbers so the positive feedback means a lot!


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